Chapter 70: When the World Stands Still
NARRATOR
The news spread like wildfire through San Cristóbal de las Casas. Monsignor Mateo Salazar, the most beloved priest in Chiapas, had been run over by a driver who fled the scene without a trace. Within hours, local and state television screens were showing images of the Cathedral of Saint Michael the Archangel, Indigenous parishioners crying in the cobblestone streets, and ambulances pulling into the Regional Hospital. No one could believe it.
Mateo was in critical condition. He had been brought in unconscious, bleeding internally, with one leg fractured in three places, two broken ribs, a liver laceration, and a severe brain contusion. Doctors placed him in an induced coma to stabilize the cerebral swelling. The medical bulletin’s words were repeated on every Televisa and TV Azteca newscast: “He is critical but alive. The next 48 hours are crucial.”
Outside the Regional Hospital, hundreds of people gathered. Some prayed on their knees on the wet pavement; others held candles or handmade banners embroidered with his name. Indigenous women sang prayers in Tsotsil. Reporters spoke of a miracle yet to come, and the municipal police assured the public they would investigate the case—though everyone knew that with Damián involved, that could mean nothing at all.
Inside the hospital, meanwhile, the sound of machines was the only thread of hope. The steady beep of the heart monitor blended with the hushed whispers of nurses on duty. In room 304 on the third floor, the man who had restored faith to an entire neighborhood lay motionless, surrounded by tubes, his face bruised purple, his stillness painful to behold.
Thousands of kilometers away, in Vancouver, Lucía was serving coffee in the bakery when she heard the Mexican news playing softly on her laptop. She recognized the reporter’s name before fully understanding the words, but the moment she saw his face on the screen, her heart quite literally stopped in her chest. The glass cup slipped from her hands and the hot liquid spilled across the floor.
“What’s wrong, mija?” Aunt Leticia asked, coming out of the back room while drying her hands.
Lucía didn’t answer. She pointed at the screen with a trembling hand, unable to form words. The image showed Mateo in a file photograph, smiling in his purple cassock, the rebuilt cathedral behind him. The anchor spoke in a grave tone:
“Monsignor Mateo Salazar was struck last night in San Cristóbal de las Casas by a hit-and-run driver. He remains in an induced coma in critical condition, though doctors say he has a chance of survival.”
Leticia turned off the oven without a word. She stepped closer to her niece and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. Lucía’s eyes were completely red, her face undone by shock.
“I have to go,” Lucía said quietly but firmly.
“Don’t even think about it,” Leticia replied sharply. “If you do that, you put yourself in mortal danger. And the twins too.”
“I can’t stay here without knowing how he is. I can’t.”
“Lucía, listen to me carefully. They won’t let you see him. You’re not legal family. And if Damián finds out you’re there, he’ll kill you without hesitation. You and the girls.”
Lucía didn’t respond. She stared at the screen until the news shifted to politics. But inside, she had already made an unbreakable decision.
In Guadalajara, the news arrived as well. Santiago and Sebastián Salazar watched the broadcast from the armored office of the family estate. Neither spoke during the first tense minutes. The camera showed the hospital façade, the faithful gathered under the rain, the police trying to keep order amid the chaos.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Sebastián asked, his voice controlled.
“Yes. Our youngest brother,” Santiago replied without taking his eyes off the screen.
He lit a cigarette, smoked half of it, then dialed a number on his encrypted phone.
“I want you to find out who did this. Quietly, but fast,” he ordered in an icy voice. “If someone ran him over on purpose, I want a full name, exact address, and motive.”
“And if Mateo finds out?” his twin brother asked.
“He’ll be angry, but he’ll understand. No one touches a Salazar and walks away unscathed. Never.”
The decision was made. The twins would not travel to Chiapas to avoid drawing the attention of federal authorities, but they sent their best men to San Cristóbal. The press would hear nothing. What they wanted was not legal justice—it was blood vengeance.
In San Cristóbal, the entire city poured into the streets outside the Regional Hospital. Television cameras showed people crying, candles lit in a river of light, rosaries raised to the sky. Priests from neighboring parishes took turns praying with the faithful. Social media filled with hashtags: #StayStrongMonsignorMateo #PrayForMateo.
Inside the hospital, doctors worked without rest. The head of neurosurgery stepped out to speak to the press and the gathered families.
“Monsignor Mateo Salazar is stable within the severity of his condition, though he remains in an induced coma. He has multiple fractures and cranial trauma, but his life is not in immediate danger at this time. We ask for respect, silence, and prayers.”
The statement triggered spontaneous applause and sobbing outside the building. Hope flickered again, like a candle in the dark.
Lucía spent two nights without sleeping a single minute. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his motionless body on a bloodstained gurney. She tried to convince herself that staying in Vancouver was best, that her aunt was right, but pain overpowered reason. One early morning, as the sky barely lightened over the coastal mountains, she packed a small suitcase, left a note on the kitchen table, and kissed Isabella and Sofía as they slept in their cribs.
“Mommy will be back soon, my loves. Take care of each other.”
She took the first flight from Vancouver to Mexico City to Tuxtla. She didn’t care about the risk of death.
The journey was an endless torment. She stared out the airplane window the entire way, thinking about how she would find him, whether he would survive, what she would say if he woke up. You have two daughters. Their names are Isabella and Sofía. They’re yours.
When she landed in Tuxtla, the humidity hit her like a wall. She took a shared taxi straight to San Cristóbal. The driver, not knowing who she was, talked the entire hour-and-a-half mountain drive.
“Crazy what happened to the monsignor, right, miss? They say everyone loved him around here. A very good man. A saint.”
Lucía only nodded, a lump in her throat.
“Yes… very good,” she replied in a barely audible voice.
When the taxi stopped in front of the Regional Hospital at dusk, the sight overwhelmed her to tears. People were praying under the cold mountain drizzle, holding candles that flickered in the wind. Hand-painted signs, flowers, banners, Indigenous children crying. The entire building seemed to breathe faith and sorrow.
She tried to enter through the main door, but private security stopped her immediately.
“I’m sorry, miss. Direct family only.”
“I’m a close friend,” she said tensely, controlling the tremor in her voice.
The guard shook his head.
“Friend or not, you can’t go in. Orders from the Archdiocese.”
Lucía stepped away without insisting, not wanting to draw attention. She walked to the side of the building, where she saw a service door used by orderlies to take out medical waste. She waited until a group of nurses came out with trash bags and slipped in behind them amid the confusion. The hallway smelled of industrial bleach and stale coffee.
She walked slowly through the white-tiled corridors, avoiding eye contact with staff. On the third floor, a young nurse approached her.
“Are you looking for someone, miss?”
“Yes, Monsignor Salazar.”
The man studied her for a few seconds, then pointed compassionately toward the end of the hallway.
“Room 304. But technically you shouldn’t—”
“Thank you,” Lucía interrupted, walking quickly before he could change his mind.
Her legs were shaking violently.
When she entered room 304, the air literally left her chest. Mateo was there, pale as wax, his face covered in purple bruises, tubes connected all over his body. His head was wrapped in white gauze stained with dried blood, and one leg was suspended in a metal brace. The machines marked a steady rhythm—the only sign of life.
She approached slowly, afraid to break the sacred silence. She took his right hand with infinite care. It was cold, lifeless.
“Hello, my love,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Tears completely blurred her vision.
“I couldn’t stay in Vancouver knowing you were like this. I couldn’t breathe without seeing you.”
She gently stroked his forehead, as if even the lightest touch might wake him.
“You have to come back, Mateo. Don’t you dare leave me. The girls need you. Your daughters.”
Her voice shattered into a thousand pieces. Tears flowed without stopping.
“They’re beautiful, love. Identical twins. They have your light eyes. Every time I look at them, I see you. Their names are Isabella and Sofía.”
She stayed there for several eternal minutes, speaking to him in a low voice, telling him things he couldn’t hear. The monitor kept the same rhythm, slow but steady. She didn’t know if he could hear her in his coma, but deep inside she felt that he could.
Suddenly, she heard firm footsteps approaching in the hallway. She straightened quickly, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and slipped out quietly, closing the door softly.
She walked to the emergency stairwell and went down three floors, blending into the families and journalists filling the chaotic lobby. No one noticed her among the crowd.
Outside, the drizzle continued. She paused for a moment under the entrance canopy, breathing in the cold mountain air. She had done what she needed to do. She had seen him alive. That was enough for now.
She called a taxi and left the hospital, heading toward the Tuxtla airport.
She didn’t notice that a few meters away, in the dark parking lot, a black pickup truck sat with its lights off. Inside, a man watched her with a predator’s eyes. It was Damián.
He lit a cigarette and smiled with absolute coldness as he followed her with his gaze.
“This isn’t over, bitch,” he murmured before starting the engine. “Now I know where you are.”
On the other side of the country, in Guadalajara, Santiago Salazar received the encrypted call from one of his best men in Chiapas.
“We’ve confirmed it, boss. It wasn’t an accident. The driver knew exactly who he was. We have a name: Damián Reyes. Local gang leader. He has a history with the monsignor.”
Santiago was silent for a few seconds, processing the information.
“Find him. But do it in absolute silence. If my brother survives, I don’t want him stained by blood vengeance.”
He hung up and looked at his twin.
“They’re going to pay for this,” he said in an icy voice.
Sebastián nodded.
“As always, our way.”
In San Cristóbal, the crowd kept praying under the rain. The candles burned, defying the wind. No one moved. No one gave up. Inside the hospital, the monitors continued to beep. Mateo’s pulse remained steady, stubborn, clinging to life.
Thousands of kilometers away, in a taxi headed for the Tuxtla airport, Lucía closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cold window. She cried in silence. She didn’t know what would come next, or whether he would ever wake up. But she had seen him. She knew he was still breathing.
And for now, that was enough to keep her alive.
Even though Damián now knew she had returned.
And that changed everything.