The first time I heard about her, I was barely fourteen.
I was sweeping the front of the cemetery when an old man approached, dragging a small wooden cart full of withered flowers.
"Do you live here?" he asked me.
I nodded.
"Then you must have seen her."
"Seen who?" I asked.
He narrowed his eyes. Looked toward the back of the cemetery. Then lowered his voice.
"The one who waits. The woman in white."
I said no.
But that night, I couldn't sleep.
The next day I went to the area the old man had mentioned. It was a part no one visited anymore. The trees had overgrown, and the tombstones were broken or almost swallowed by the earth. I walked slowly, listening.
Nothing. Not even the wind.
I returned the next day. And the next.
Until one afternoon I saw her.
She was standing at the edge of a collapsed grave, with her back to me. Her dress was white, almost glowing. Her long black hair fell over her shoulders like a curtain. She wasn't moving. Not breathing. Just… standing there. As if waiting for someone.
I didn't feel fear.
Only a strange sadness.
"Good evening," I said.
She didn't respond.
"I'm Citlali," I added. "If you need anything…"
She slowly turned her head toward me.
Her face was pale. Her eyes hollow. But not empty.
She looked at me for a long time, and then… she vanished.
Like smoke scattered by the wind.
—
I didn't tell anyone.
But I returned every day.
Sometimes I brought her flowers. Other times, a candle.
She never spoke to me, but she always appeared. Always in the same place.
As if tied to that grave.
Over time, I began to hear whispers. From the other spirits.
"She waits," said one.
"She never forgave," said another.
"No one came for her," murmured a third.
And that night, I dreamed of her.
I saw her wandering through the town, barefoot, her white dress stained with blood. She was crying. But no one saw her. No one opened their door.
And when she reached the cemetery, she lay down in the open grave…
and never got up again.
—
The next day, I dug.
I don't know why. Something told me I had to.
The earth was loose, damp. It didn't take long to find what I wasn't looking for.
A skull. A broken rosary.
And beneath them… a small locket.
Inside, there was a tiny, faded photo of a baby.
I heard her behind me.
"I told him," she said. Her voice was dry, brittle. "That it was his. But he didn't believe me."
I didn't turn around.
"He said I was a liar. That no one would believe me."
A gust of wind chilled my bones.
"He left me there. Bleeding. And no one came."
The locket trembled in my hand.
"I'm still waiting," she whispered. "For someone to tell him. For someone to remember me."
I nodded, swallowing tears.
"I will," I said. "I'll remember you."
When I turned, she was gone.
But the grave no longer felt cold.
—
Since that day, the woman in white no longer appears in the cemetery.
But sometimes, I hear her footsteps near my door.
As if she comes to see if I've kept my promise.
And I have.
I told her story.
And now you know it too.