The three-hour journey into the interior of Quintana Roo had plunged Lysandra into the depths of her father, Julian's, diary, while Agnes dozed beside her. When they finally arrived in José María Morelos, the Saturday midday sun beat down on the small town, a haven of simple life and vibrant colors nestled in the heart of the jungle. The houses were modest, with whitewashed walls and tin or palm-thatched roofs, and the air smelled of damp earth, woodsmoke, and the tropical flowers overflowing from small gardens.
Agnes's mother's house was one of the oldest, a masonry construction with a shaded porch and a backyard full of fruit trees. Upon arrival, sadness enveloped Agnes again, but also a quiet determination. With Lysandra's help, they began the arduous task of going through the belongings of an entire lifetime: carefully folded clothes that still held a faint scent of camphor, sepia photographs of unknown faces, little treasures stored in tin boxes—buttons, religious medals, letters with faded ink.
Lysandra watched Agnes move with a mixture of pain and tenderness among her mother's memories, each object evoking a story, a tear, a fleeting smile. It was an emotionally exhausting task for both of them.
After a few hours, seeing the weariness on Lysandra's face and perhaps needing a moment alone with her own memories, Agnes said softly, "My child, you've helped so much. Why don't you go for a walk around the village? Get to know it a little. Near here, about a twenty-minute walk to the east, there's a beautiful lagoon, 'Laguna Encantada' some call it. It's a very peaceful place, ideal for reading or for your mind to rest a bit amidst so much jungle."
Lysandra, feeling the need for fresh air and a space to process not only Agnes's grief but also the incipient revelations from her father's diary, accepted gratefully. "Thank you, Nana. I think I'll do that."
Following Agnes's directions, she ventured down a path that wound from the edge of the village into the thicket. The air grew denser, the sounds of civilization faded, replaced by the songs of birds, the buzzing of insects, and the rustling of leaves overhead. And then, like an emerald mirage, the lagoon appeared. It was a body of crystalline water, an intense greenish-blue, surrounded by lush vegetation that reflected on its surface as if in a mirror. The stillness was almost absolute, broken only by the occasional splash of a fish or the flight of an iridescent-winged butterfly.
Lysandra found a fallen log near the shore, in the shade of an imposing ceiba tree, and sat down. The place emanated an ancestral peace. She took Julian's heavy diary from her backpack, curiosity pulling at her more strongly than fatigue. She opened it where she had left off, continuing to read.
The first pages she had read in the car spoke of her father's youthful travels, his thirst for adventure, his philosophical reflections, and, of course, the beginning of his relationship with Elara, with that passionate "fever" that had so surprised her. But as she progressed, the tone of some entries began to darken, especially those describing his first interactions with Elara's family.
One entry in particular left her with a knot in her stomach:
"June 10th. Today I met Elara's parents. Her mother, an elegant woman but with cold eyes, examined me as if I were an insect under a microscope. But it was Colonel Vance, her father, who chilled my blood. A man of military bearing, one of those who don't smile even by decree. From the moment Elara introduced me, his eyes, gray as steel, did not leave me, judging me, weighing me. I felt his disapproval like an invisible slap. 'Young Thorne,' he said, his voice as sharp as a knife, 'my daughter has… peculiar tastes. I hope you know what you're getting into.' What did he mean? My lack of a high-sounding surname, my wandering spirit, my lack of interest in the social conventions he seemed to value so much?"
Lysandra felt a pang of indignation on her father's behalf. She continued reading, each word adding a darker layer to the story.
"June 15th. The Colonel does not yield. Today, in a 'private' conversation that felt more like an interrogation, he insinuated that he knew 'rumors' about my past, about my younger years before I met Elara. 'There are shadows on your path, Thorne,' he said, 'and I don't want those shadows to reach my daughter.' Shadows! What the devil does he mean? Yes, my youth was not a bed of roses, I've made decisions I may not be entirely proud of, I've explored less… conventional paths. But a dark past? It sounds like cheap melodrama. Yet, there was a conviction in his gaze, a cold certainty that deeply unsettled me."
And then, a few pages later, the confirmation, written in a tense, almost feverish hand:
"July 2nd. They know. Somehow, the old Colonel has unearthed fragments of my life abroad, of those turbulent years in the Far East, of the company I kept, of the businesses bordering on illegality I got involved in to survive before finding my true calling in exploration and history. He hasn't said it directly, but his insinuations are daggers. Today, Elara cried. She defended me before him, with the fierceness of a lioness, but I saw the fear in her eyes. Her father has told her I am an unscrupulous adventurer, a man with a past that could destroy them all. And the worst part, my love, the worst part is that… in part, they were right."
Lysandra slammed the diary shut, the sharp sound breaking the lagoon's stillness. A bitter taste, like ash, filled her mouth. Her father. Julian Thorne, the man who in his letters to Elara sounded like a passionate poet, the intrepid explorer, the father she remembered with such affection, had a "dark past"? One that his own in-laws, Elara's parents, had discovered and feared?
The idealized image of her parents, already cracked by the revelations of Elara's cancer and the lost child, now suffered a new blow, one that directly affected the integrity of the father figure she had so admired. The tranquility of the lagoon, with its serene beauty and crystal-clear waters, now seemed a mockery, a cruel contrast to the turbulent darkness she was beginning to glimpse in the heart of her family's story. The pieces of the puzzle were moving, yes, but instead of fitting together, they seemed to be creating an ever more complex, more somber, and painfully human picture.