And every time, his abuela, Elena, would look up from her herb garden, her dark eyes holding a century of unspoken stories. “Ten cuidado con lo que deseas, mijo. The world listens.”
That ancient warning has echoed through folktales and whispered warnings for centuries. But for Mateo, a young, restless sculptor in the rain-soaked mountain town of Valverde, it was just a phrase his abuela muttered when he complained about the village’s slow, quiet life.
He was made of black stone. His mouth was open in a silent scream. And in the corner of his studio, a new obsidian sphere sat waiting for the next restless soul.
But each night, the sculpture changed.
Then he looked at his reflection in the window glass.
“The sphere is old,” she said softly. “Older than the mountains. It gives wishes, yes. But it gives them the way a river gives water—it takes its price from the banks. The sculpture you have? That woman was a sculptor too, three hundred years ago. She wished for eternal beauty in her art. Now she is the art. And she will never stop screaming.”
Desperate, he ran to his abuela.
“I wish something exciting would happen,” he’d sigh, chipping away at a block of local limestone. “I wish my work mattered.”
First, her fingers moved—just a twitch. Then her eyes tracked him across the room. One morning, Mateo found a single, real tear pooled at her stone feet. And he noticed something else: his own shadow was no longer his. It was taller, thinner, and its hands were always raised like hers.
Elena was grinding herbs at her kitchen table, calm as the eye of a storm. She didn’t look up. “You wished for excitement, mijo. For your work to matter.” Ten cuidado con lo que deseas
His abuela’s voice drifted through the door, muffled, speaking to a visitor: “He’s not here anymore, señor. But if you’re looking for art… there’s a new piece in his studio. Quite breathtaking. Ten cuidado con lo que deseas.”
That night, Mateo stood before the living statue. Her stone fingers had almost reached his throat now. The obsidian sphere pulsed like a black heart.
Mateo should have been terrified. Instead, he was ecstatic. And every time, his abuela, Elena, would look