The truth is, I'm not sure where to start.

This is a story that's still writing itself.

A story that's haunted me for the last 12 years, that's haunted all of us.

My family, and those close to me who unexpectedly became part of this story, I must go back

in time, not just to 2008, when the experience began for me but earlier, much earlier, back

to the 1980s, to a tiny peaceful little town in Guanajuato, home to my grandmother and

my maternal family.

My grandmother was always close to the priests of the town and was one of those women who

spent their time in the church, helping, giving what little she had to others.

After her children finished school, and she found herself living on her own, she donated

everything she had to the poorest people in the town and lived only on my grandfather's

pension.

Once while teaching catechism to a group of girls, an agitated young man arrived on a donkey

seeking the priest, desperately asking for help.

Seeing that poor man so desperate and exhausted, my grandmother hurried to find the priest,

thinking it was an accident, and someone needing less rights along the way.

She asked the girls to attend to him and give him water while she searched.

Out in the back of the church, she glanced toward the hill, where the priest often went

to be alone, to pray.

As she walked the path, she noticed a woman dressed in black in the horizon.

Her hair was long, white, flowing in the wind across her face.

My grandmother couldn't see her face, but she knew she wasn't from the town.

...