The Cuban countryside was completely consumed by thunder and torrential rain. The sky split open with blinding lightning, briefly illuminating the earth before plunging back into darkness. The rain washed over the ground, mixing with the mud to form small streams that flowed into low-lying ditches, carrying away stray stalks and clumps of earth.
On this barren land, Francisco—a gaunt middle-aged farmer—hurriedly walked against the howling wind and rain. His back was slightly hunched, and his face was lined with the hardships of time. One hand gripped a few muddy potatoes tightly, while the other held up a worn raincoat, trying to shield himself from the pouring rain.
Francisco had a wife and a nine-year-old daughter. His daughter, Isabella, was the only light in this family. Despite the crushing struggles of life, every time Isabella called him "Daddy" with her innocent voice, he felt there was still a reason to hold on.
However, Isabella was sick. She had developed a high fever since yesterday, her small body burning with heat, her gaze unfocused, and weak groans coming from her throat. The house was already devoid of everything, with all the medicine and food requisitioned by the military, leaving only an empty house, like debris from a storm.
"I need to find medicine," Francisco muttered, hunched in the dilapidated mud house, his hand pressed against his wrinkled cheek in thought. After a long silence, he finally spoke. The wind seeped through the cracks, tearing at the dying, faint candlelight.
His wife cried and pleaded, "It's pouring outside, and those thugs at the village hospital—it's like going to your death!"
"What's life without it? At least I have to try!" Francisco retorted gruffly, his eyes bloodshot. He threw on his tattered raincoat, opened the broken door, and stepped out into the stormy night.
The village hospital was not far away, a simple wooden building with yellowish light spilling out from the windows. "Please, my daughter has a fever, save my daughter..." Francisco desperately knocked on the door, but what greeted him wasn't a lifeline, but the gleam of a gun barrel.
"Get out! The medicine is not for you!" The guard in military uniform scolded coldly.
"Please... she's just a child," Francisco knelt down, his pants soaked with mud, rainwater running down his face as if he were crying. He tried to approach but was struck hard in the chest by the rifle butt, the pain taking his breath away.
"I told you to get out, or you won't be standing when you go back home!"
Francisco curled up on the ground, his chest spasming in pain. He knew begging was useless, but he still hoarsely cried out, "Please... I just need some medicine..."
The only response was the deafening sound of a gunshot. Francisco was forced to flee in disgrace.
Dragging his weary body, Francisco trudged back to his farmland, the torrential rain whipping at his back like a whip, but his heart was colder than the storm itself. He picked up a hoe and, with all his strength, began digging through the mud.
"Even if it's just a little... even if it's just a little..." Francisco muttered to himself.
But the soil had long been exhausted, with almost nothing that could be called "food." After a long search, he finally dug out a few shriveled potatoes from the deep muck.
These potatoes couldn't cure illness, but at least they would give Isabella a bit of strength to make it through the night.
Francisco carefully picked up the potatoes, clutching them tightly to his chest. His hands were covered in mud, mixed with the smell of torn skin and sweat. He took a deep breath, bracing himself against his cramping legs, and stubbornly made his way home along the mountain path.
As Francisco passed a steep mountain road, a heavy rumbling sound came from afar. He turned to see several military armored vehicles driving along the road at the foot of the mountain, their metal shells appearing even colder in the lightning's glow.
His instinct was to avoid them. The military's presence had never meant safety to him—only oppression and exploitation. He quickened his pace, trying to take another path, but the rain made the ground slippery. He slipped and lost control, tumbling down the slope.
"Ah—!" Francisco cried out briefly, tumbling uncontrollably down the steep mountain, still clutching the potatoes for his daughter. He finally crashed heavily onto the road in front of an armored vehicle.
The armored vehicle didn't stop. It roared forward.
The metal beast mercilessly rolled over his body.
The potatoes scattered in the rain, and the muddy water quickly turned red. His body was crushed into a bloody mess, the blood flowing down the mountain road's ravines, merging with the stream, disappearing into the storm's roar—just like our lives fade into history.