While Francisco was preparing the wedding in Antioquia, Isabella wept in her room, her small hands covering her face as Grandma María tried to soothe her trembling shoulders.
"Alright, my dear," said Grandma María softly, her wrinkled hand brushing the child's hair aside. "They've already gone. You must be strong now—strong enough to look after your father when he returns."
Isabella looked up, eyes glistening. "Why does my brother have to go so far away?"
Grandma María sighed, her gaze drifting toward the window, where the afternoon light was fading into gold. "Because he has ambitions, little one. He wants to learn new things—and the knowledge he seeks is not taught here."
"But why can't he learn it with us?" Isabella asked, her voice quivering.
"Because this land, though rich in soul, is still young in wisdom," the old woman replied. "But one day, when you grow, perhaps you'll change that."
Tears welled again in Isabella's eyes. "It's unfair that he has to go so far…"
María smiled, though her own eyes were heavy with sorrow. "Then why don't we make a pact, you and I? While they're away, I'll teach you how to treat patients as the Pijao do. So that when your brother returns, he'll see you've walked your own path and found your own knowledge."
Isabella nodded through her tears. "Yes, Grandma."
That evening, they began their lessons—boiling herbs, naming roots, and grinding seeds under the soft scent of eucalyptus and smoke. Yet, when the house fell silent and the moonlight crept across the wooden floor, Isabella's heart remained restless.
She slipped from her bed, barefoot and trembling, and crept out into the cool night. The fields shimmered under the starlight. Beyond them, the dark outline of the forest whispered like a secret.
For a long moment, she hesitated. Then, gathering what little courage she had, she whispered, "Father… brother… wait for me," and stepped into the trees.
The path was uneven, damp beneath her feet. Fireflies floated between the trunks, their glow blinking like lost stars. Soon, the familiar sounds of the estate vanished—only the forest remained: alive, ancient, and watchful.
"Grandma?" she called softly. "Father? Big brother?"
Only the wind answered, rustling the leaves. Fear began to creep into her chest. She sat behind a tree, hugging her knees, tears streaking her cheeks. "Where are you? I'm scared…"
A distant howl echoed. Then another.Her breath caught.
Wolves.
She remembered her father's tales—how their eyes burned in the night and their hunger was endless. The sound grew closer: a low growl, circling her. She shut her eyes, trembling, whispering prayers she barely remembered.
Then, through the darkness, a soft green light shimmered. The growls fell silent. The wolves turned, as if commanded by something unseen, and vanished into the shadows.
Isabella opened her eyes. The forest was still. Ahead, the strange light flickered between the trees—gentle, inviting.
She followed it.
No branches cracked beneath her feet, no insects stirred. Even the night itself seemed to hold its breath. At last, she reached a stream glowing faintly green, its waters so clear she could see each stone beneath. On the bank, someone—or something—had left a small bundle of fruit and bread.
Her stomach growled. She ate quietly, then lay among the flowers, lulled by the whisper of the stream. Sleep came quickly.
Back at the estate, Grandma María entered Isabella's room with a small cup of herbs to help her sleep. "Isabella, are you awake?" she called gently.
Silence.
She frowned, stepped inside—and froze. The bed was empty.
Her voice broke the night: "Isabella! Isabella, where are you?"
The servants awoke at once. Lamps flared, footsteps echoed through the corridors.
"Grandma María, what's wrong?" asked a young maid.
"The child is gone! She must have slipped out—help me find her!"
The estate came alive with shouts and hurried orders. The butler, pale and breathless, appeared moments later. "Miss María, please, calm yourself. We'll search every path and, if we must, alert the master by dawn."
"She's heading to the town," Grandma María said suddenly, her eyes wide. "She must be trying to reach her father and brother. Prepare the horses!"
They rode into the night. The forest loomed like a sea of shadows. Then, halfway down the road, one of the horses reared, throwing its rider to the ground.
"What happened?" cried another servant.
"I—I don't know," the man stammered, brushing off dirt. "He stopped as if he'd seen something."
Before they could continue, the man turned toward the woods. His eyes widened. "Wait… that light—"
"What light?" asked another.
"The Mother of the Mountains and Forests!" he whispered, voice trembling. "She's guiding us!"
The others saw only darkness, but the conviction in his tone froze them. Then, without another word, he ran into the trees.
The group split—some toward the town, others following the strange glow.
Deep in the forest, the man called out, "Miss Isabella! Where are you?"
A small voice answered sleepily, "Who's calling me?"
Relief broke through his chest. He found her lying by the glowing stream, safe and unharmed.
"Miss Isabella," he said, kneeling beside her, "the Mother of the Mountains and Forests has protected you."
"The Mother… of the Mountains?" she murmured. "Who is that?"
He smiled softly. "A guardian spirit. She keeps children from harm. Now, let's take you home—your grandmother is worried sick."
At the mention of Grandma María, Isabella's eyes filled with guilt. "I'm sorry," she whispered, clinging to him.
He bowed briefly to the stream. "Thank you," he murmured, and carried the child back through the sleeping woods.
When they returned, Grandma María rushed forward and gathered Isabella in her arms.
"Why did you do that?" she cried. "Do you know how frightened we were?"
"I just wanted to see Father and Brother," Isabella sobbed. "But then I saw wolves… I was so scared…"
"Wolves?" Grandma María gasped, checking her over for wounds. Finding none, she held her tighter. "From now on, you'll sleep in my room until your father returns."
Later, when the girl had finally fallen asleep in her arms, María listened as the servant recounted everything—including the light, and his belief that it was the Mother of the Mountains and Forests.
The old woman nodded slowly. "My father used to speak of her. A kind spirit… one who watches over lost children."
Then she turned to the butler. "From tonight forward, the watch will be doubled. The girl's escape was not your fault alone, but no child should ever be able to slip away again."
The butler bowed, chastened. Orders were given, duties reassigned. Yet as the household quieted and dawn's first light touched the windows, Grandma María sat awake beside the sleeping child.
Outside, far beyond the fields, a faint green light flickered one last time in the forest—and faded with the rising sun.