La Dama de los Recuerdos

A painted guardian watches over the room,

her face a constellation of marigold and bone,

eyes blooming with stories older than the walls that hold them.

She sits in silence yet fills the air with color,

a whisper of Día de los Muertos woven into every brushstroke.

Around her, chairs gleam like polished shells,

stone and wood hum with warmth,

and the whole space feels like a heartbeat—

steady, vibrant, remembering.