The April breeze embarked from the ocean, traveling a thousand miles to arrive at the land of the lakes in Michoacán. Under the warm sunshine, a faint mist rose by the shores of Lake Patzcuaro, the air carrying a moist breath. Pines and cypresses by the water danced lightly in the wind, morning dew gathered on the tips of leaves, cascading down their elongated branches. The serene moments of early spring were silently soaked in the morning sun.
Xiulote stood quietly by the lakeside, gazing into the deep blue sky. The fresh wind blew by, carrying the scent of unnamed flowers and unraveling the clouds. Sunshine fell upon his face and all around him, leaving behind radiant tranquility.
Yet, peace and calm were merely temporary illusions; war and bloodshed were the true realities of this world. The breeze from the southwest carried with it the scent of gunpowder, and even the faint smell of blood could be detected.
