Chapter 5 - Abuela's Legacy

I got home in the early, predawn hours, my shoulders aching and my heart thudding with leftover adrenaline. The neighborhood was still and quiet—only the distant coquí chirps broke the hush, their calls forming a lonely harmony in the humid air. As I slipped inside, I couldn't tell if my trembling was from exhaustion or from the rush of the night's revelations.

Dad waited in the living room, arms crossed, the static hum of the muted television filling the space. No sooner had I shut the door than he flicked on the overhead lamp. The sudden brightness stung my eyes.

"¿Qué rayos te pasa?" he demanded in Spanish, voice low but steeped in anger and concern. "Mateo, it's almost four in the morning. I've been out of my mind worried."

Guilt knotted in my stomach. I glanced at my scuffed sneakers. "I—I'm sorry," I managed, my voice thin. "There was a… a situation."

"A situation?" He shot up from the couch, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Last time you pulled this, you said you lost track of time. Now, you come home looking like…" His gaze settled on my bruised shoulder, and his expression darkened. "Are you hurt?"

"It's not as bad as it looks." I touched the sore spot, thinking of the healing salve Elias had given me. Even though it had dulled the pain, I could almost feel my father's anxiety scorching me. "I promise I'm okay. Just—"

Before I could finish, Dad exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Mateo, you can't keep disappearing like this. I can't—" His voice cracked, and something vulnerable flashed in his eyes. "I can't lose you, too."

The words lodged in my throat. He didn't say it, but I knew he was thinking of Abuela, how we'd both lost her too soon. The memory twisted in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I said again, more softly. "I just… it's complicated."

"Explain it to me," Dad insisted, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Are you… involved in something illegal? Some kind of gang?"

"No!" My heart hammered at how close he was to the truth—there was a war going on, but it wasn't the kind he could comprehend. "I swear, it's not that. It's…" I hesitated, searching for words that wouldn't sound absurd or dangerous. "Some friends needed help. I couldn't walk away."

Dad's eyes raked over me, assessing. After a tense moment, he ran both hands down his face, fatigue etched in every line. "Go to bed," he said finally, voice hollow. "We'll talk in the morning."

I wanted to hug him, to somehow reassure him I wasn't lying. But the gap between us felt enormous. Unable to bridge it, I trudged upstairs, the weight of secrets pressing into my spine.

I slept fitfully and woke to the smell of café con leche wafting from the kitchen. Sunshine poured through my curtains, mocking my exhaustion. My bruised shoulder ached dully, a constant reminder that last night's events were more than a bad dream.

Downstairs, Dad stood by the coffee pot, his expression guarded. He slid a steaming mug toward me without a word. A flush of shame colored my cheeks as I reached for it. I sipped carefully, letting the hot bitterness ground me in the present.

Finally, he broke the silence. "We need to set some rules. I can't have you vanishing at all hours."

My mouth felt sour with guilt. "I know."

He studied me for a long moment. "Look, mijo… I'm worried. You're getting in over your head. If this 'helping friends' thing is dangerous, I need to know."

My heart twisted. It is dangerous. But how could I tell him about magic duels in an alley or an underground refuge plastered with Taíno murals? "Just trust me, please," I said quietly.

His jaw tightened. "You're asking a lot, Mateo."

I swallowed, tasting the weight of the conversation in the back of my throat. "I promise, I'll be careful. I just… I need time to figure things out."

A weary sigh escaped him. He turned off the coffeemaker, then reached for his keys. "Well, you'll have plenty of time to think. I need to get to work. You're staying in today, understood? No going out without telling me."

I nodded, stomach sinking. He pressed his lips together, then left without a hug or a goodbye. The door shut behind him with a hollow clang, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The morning stretched on, oppressive with guilt and secrecy. Part of me itched to text Elias or Soraya—What's next?—but Dad's words echoed in my head: No going out without telling me. And if I asked for permission, he'd demand specifics.

Around noon, I ventured into the living room. Rays of sunlight slanted through the curtains, highlighting the furniture we'd barely moved since Abuela's funeral. My gaze drifted toward the hallway where her old trunk lay gathering dust in my room. With a tightening in my chest, I decided to open it again—maybe I could find some clue about the coquí pendant, the magic I seemed to sense through it.

Returning to my bedroom, I hesitated in front of the trunk. The wood was scuffed with age, hinges tarnished from years of salt air. I knelt, heart fluttering. A flood of memories washed over me: Abuela's laughter, her stories told in the glow of a single lamp, the comforting press of her hand against mine whenever I felt scared.

Gently, I lifted the lid. Inside were old photographs, handwritten notes, and bits of crocheted lace. A musty, sweet smell enveloped me—the scent of Abuela's rose-scented lotion mixed with the ocean breeze. Carefully, I sifted through the contents.

First, I found a faded black-and-white photo of a young woman in a flowy dress—Abuela in her twenties, standing near a towering ceiba tree. My heart panged. She'd always said the ceiba was sacred to Taíno beliefs. Next, I discovered an embroidered cloth depicting coquí frogs dancing around a sun symbol. The stitching was worn, but I could still make out swirling patterns that looked like the same designs on the mural Elias had shown us.

Then, at the bottom, a tattered journal bound with a fraying ribbon. I brushed dust off the cover, revealing faded letters. My Spanish was decent, but I could barely make out the cursive script: Memorias de Mi Abuela (Grandmother's Memories). My throat went tight. Could this be Abuela's diary?

With trembling fingers, I opened it. The pages crackled, the ink in places smudged from age or maybe tears. One passage caught my eye:

"The coquí's song guides the children of the island, connecting us to the spirits of water, mountains, and sky. Our ancestors taught us the harmony of dance and drum, but conquerors silenced them with violence. If the day comes when these traditions must resurface, those chosen by the island will hear the call… and they must answer, or we risk losing our soul forever."

The words blurred through sudden tears. Those chosen by the island. A part of me shivered at how closely it matched what Elias had been saying—that Puerto Rico was alive with spiritual currents, that some people carried an inheritance of magic and responsibility. Abuela must have believed it deeply. Was I one of those chosen?

I turned another page, scanning for more clues. A section described a folkloric dance that combined Taíno footwork with Afro-Caribbean rhythms, used not just for celebration but for "communal healing." It reminded me of Elias's mention of training that preserved multiple cultural threads.

My head spun. Abuela had known about these practices. Maybe she'd even been part of the same secret circle that Elias belonged to. My chest constricted at the thought of how many nights I'd shrugged off her "folktales" as simple bedtime stories.

A beep from my phone startled me, jerking me out of the trance. I fumbled to check the screen. It was a text—from Soraya.

Soraya (1:12 PM)

We're meeting tonight. Elias says it's urgent. He'll text you the details. You in?

My pulse leaped. Dad had just ordered me to stay put, but how could I ignore Elias's summons, especially with the weight of Abuela's diary pressing on me? The lines about "those chosen by the island" echoed in my head, reminding me that whether I liked it or not, I might be part of something bigger.

Swallowing hard, I typed back:

Me (1:13 PM)

Yeah. Let me know where.

An hour later, just as I was mentally mapping out how to sneak away, Dad came home early. My stomach lurched. He tossed his keys on the kitchen table, jaw tense. "Got off work sooner," he muttered. "Wanted to check on you."

Something in his voice told me he still wasn't convinced I was safe. Guilt twisted in my gut. "I'm fine, Dad," I said, mustering a small smile. "Really."

His gaze swept the room, landing on the open trunk by my bed. The journal still lay on top. He frowned. "Going through Abuela's things again?"

I swallowed, nodding. "Just… missing her." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.

His expression softened, then clouded with sadness. "I miss her too."

For a moment, we stood in silence, the memories of her bridging our usual distance. Then my phone chimed again, piercing the hush. I scrambled to silence it, but Dad's eyes narrowed. "New message?"

I clenched the phone, pulse pounding. "Just… just Soraya."

He gave me that searching look I hated, the one that made me feel like a bug under a microscope. "Mateo, I can't stop you from talking to your friends, but if this is about going out again tonight—"

"It's not!" The words burst out before I could think them through. I felt the heat of a lie on my tongue. His suspicion only grew.

He sighed heavily. "I don't want us fighting again. I just… I need to know you're safe."

My heart twisted. "I know. And I appreciate that." I pressed my phone to my chest, remembering last night's terror in the alley. Would Dad ever understand that the real danger lay outside his grasp—that if I didn't meet Elias, the Mantle might come for me or Soraya anyway?

Just then, the phone buzzed a second time, rattling my nerves. Dad opened his mouth to speak, but I forced a quick smile. "I need some fresh air," I said abruptly, edging toward the door. "Just, like, around the block. I'll be back soon. Promise."

He didn't look convinced, but he let me go with a short nod. "Don't be long."

I hurried out of the house, stepping into the late afternoon light. My phone read:

Elias (2:05 PM)

Meet at the Plaza Colón in Old San Juan after sundown. I'll guide you from there. It's important.

Plaza Colón—an open square near the city's old gate, usually filled with strolling families and performers by day, but quieter at night. I exhaled shakily. Dad would never approve of me going back there, especially after what I'd pulled last night. A quiver of rebellion coursed through me. But if I don't go…

I lingered on the sidewalk, warm sunlight prickling my skin. Across the street, Mrs. Rivera was watering her hibiscus, the bright petals nodding under her hose. She waved when she saw me, calling out, "Hola, Mateo. You look tired."

A pang of normality hit me. I want to be normal. But the drumbeat of the island's hidden magic, the searing memory of red sparks tearing through that alley, had irrevocably changed me. The guilt, the fear, the intrigue—all churned in my gut. One look at Abuela's diary told me the fight against the Mantle wasn't new; it was embedded in our history.

My phone buzzed once more, a final text from Soraya:

Soraya (2:10 PM)

We're doing this, right? For Elias—and for PR. Also, I might have found some old records about a group that fought the Mantle centuries ago. My abuela's cousin or something was involved. We'll compare notes tonight.

I smiled faintly. Soraya's unstoppable curiosity was one of the reasons I trusted her with my life. We're doing this, I typed back, heart hammering. See you soon.

The rest of the day passed in a tense blur. Dad kept one eye on me while pretending to read the newspaper. I busied myself with half-hearted chores, checking the time every few minutes. My coquí pendant brushed against my collarbone with each move, and each time I touched it, a thrill of anticipation and dread shot through me.

Around seven, Dad insisted we eat dinner together—arroz con pollo and beans, the comforting smell nearly overwhelmed my anxiety. I made small talk about school, anything to deflect. He watched me with concern, but said nothing.

As soon as I finished, I excused myself, ducking into my room, heart pounding. If I snuck out now, Dad would catch me. He'd probably ground me until I turned thirty. But if I stay…

I glanced at Abuela's trunk, at the swirling embroidered frogs, the old photos, the diary. Her words about "the day when these traditions must resurface" pulsed in my mind. All I could think was: That day is today.

A plan formed. I'd slip out after Dad went to bed, meet Soraya and Elias, and come back before dawn. Terrifying, but necessary. The alternative was letting the Mantle's threat loom unchallenged—no magic training, no deeper understanding of the pendant's legacy.

I recalled a final moment with Abuela when I was little—she'd held my hand under the glow of a single lamp, whispering: "Teo, our island is alive. Its magic sleeps in the drums and coquí songs. One day, it may call you to protect it."

Back then, I'd giggled, thinking it was a fairy tale. Now, those words burned with new truth. Part of me wanted to cry, missing her warmth and wisdom. Another part felt lit with a fierce determination: I won't let her down.

Night fell. Dad retreated to his room with a resigned sigh, probably still bracing for a confrontation in the morning. I waited until his light clicked off. My breath fluttered in my chest. Heart slamming against my ribs, I tiptoed down the stairs. Each creak in the wood seemed deafening. At the door, I paused.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I whispered to the empty living room. Then, gently, I slipped outside into the warm Caribbean night.

A swirl of stars dotted the sky, and the humid air tasted of salt and something electric—like the energy of the island was ready for the next storm to roll in. The coquí frogs started their nighttime chorus, that echoing ko-kee, ko-kee tugging at my soul. I'm coming, Abuela, I thought silently, clutching the pendant beneath my shirt. I'm listening to the island's call.

Though every step away from my house twisted my stomach with guilt, I forced myself onward, mind set on the hour-long trip to Plaza Colón. The city lights glowed at the horizon, beckoning me to secrets and dangers I could no longer avoid.

I thought of Elias, battered but unwavering, trusting me and Soraya to join him. I thought of Soraya, fearless and ready to document the unknown. I thought of my father, lost between fear and love, not understanding I was protecting him by going. And I thought of Abuela, whose diary told me I wasn't alone in this fight.

So I walked into the night, heart pounding, each footstep echoing with possibility. The coquí sang louder as if cheering me on, and in the shimmering dark, I dared to believe I was on the cusp of something monumental—an invitation into a world Abuela had always said was ours to reclaim.