It was a clear afternoon, just after a heavy downpour. The sky above the Pacific coast of Costa Rica opened slowly, and a fresh breeze danced through the trees, across the sea, as if the Earth herself was exhaling. The waves crashed with an ancient, steady rhythm. The air smelled of salt and damp soil.

Two women, two sisters, walked side by side, barefoot on the sand. In front of them, their four children—two girls, two boys—ran laughing, chasing the tide, playing with the wind. These children had grown up in the rhythm of stories. Tales of the ocean, of the forest, of the old memory both women carried in silence.

“Let me tell you about your grandparents,” said one of the mothers, her eyes resting on the horizon. “They are no longer here, but through the sea and the land, you can still feel them.”

The children came back to them, their feet half-buried in the sand.

“My mother,” she continued, “was like the ocean. Her love for life was deep and steady, like the waves. She always said the shell she carried with her wasn’t just a shell—it was a way to hear nature’s voice. And if you truly listened, if you opened your heart wide enough, you could hear it too.”

The other mother nodded gently.

“Your grandfather was the forest’s guardian. He listened to the trees, the wind, the animals. He taught us to be silent, to understand that everything around us is alive—that everything speaks, if you are willing to hear.”

The children turned toward the sea. The waves rolled slowly, like the whispers of ancestors. Silence settled around them—not empty, but full of reverence.

“And then, there are the sea turtles,” added the first mother. “Each year, they return here. They cross oceans, weather storms and dangers, guided by something deep, unseen. They come back to give life. Their journey is ours too—sometimes difficult, but always guided by what truly matters.”

The other woman picked up the thread, her voice smiling:

“Like the turtles, we carry a memory. A memory of who we truly are. Even when the world lost its way, when the cities collapsed, when the Earth cried out, we found the path home again. Through that love, through the wisdom passed on by our elders, we learned once more how to listen.”

The children said nothing. Their eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. They belonged to a new time. A world that, after forgetting, was slowly learning to remember. The great turning had already come. The pain had been immense, but it had awakened something—something ancient, something strong.

“Today, we live differently,” said one of the mothers. “We build with the Earth, not against her. We protect the ocean as if it were our own mother. Because that’s what she is—the womb from which all life was born.”

The other added, her eyes shining:

“And like the turtles, we return. Again and again. Because now we know that Life… always knows the way.”

EMELINA CORRALES CORDERO

ILLUSTRATED BY VIRGINIA MAZZEO