In Puerto Rico, the rain comes fast and thick, curling through the old forts and heavy stones like fingers looking for something lost. At El Morro and San Cristóbal, the cannons may have gone silent, but the shadows still keep watch from the battlements. In the deep folds of El Yunque Rainforest, the air hums with old spirits, and the waterfalls whisper stories meant only for the trees.
La Llorona’s cry still floats along the rivers, thin and sharp as a blade, and in the graveyards of Ponce, the Devil’s Chair waits empty, daring the living to sit and see what follows them home. The beaches sparkle under the sun, but at night, the wind carries the footsteps of sailors who never left the sea.
Here, they say “Joannes Est Nomen Ejus” — John is his name —
but out among the ruins, the rivers, and the mist, it’s not John you hear calling your name.