A few years ago, May showers filled Tegucigalpa streets with tall, red and yellow trees. Now, May showers flood the streets with garbage and dead bodies, and the air is not as fresh as some people may remember. Now, the air is thick and heavy with the scent of death.

Still, we are here. The water is up to our knees, and the putrid scent of the years of suffering doesn’t feel so putrid anymore. We are here cause we have hope. We hope for a fresh start. After two years of hiding underground, they say Cortez can give us that.

At first, I couldn’t believe the news.

“Cortez never suffered from the infection,” said the voice on the radio. A secret like that couldn’t be held for long. However, they are not letting everyone in. My dad was a soldier when the badges were red and held the name of freedom. These people say that is enough to try.

We have to walk 250 kilometers to get there, but I kind of feel we will walk more. We all looked scared and helpless. What would happen if an infected appears? Infecteds don’t like rain, but even if we know it will continue to pour, we are certain the infection evolves. At this point, I would rather death reach me than become one of them. I pray for that every night.

I noticed we all pray.

Barbara, soldier’s widow, prays.

Carlos, former soldier, prays.

Lorenzo, ex-president, prays.

Elizabeth, high school teacher, prays.

I just hope someone listens.

Ex-military, a young man with values that remind you of a Knight out of a princess tale. A tall man with enough force and experience to beat the strongest of men, but with a heart of gold, compassionate for older people and stray dogs.

His features make you think he’s from Europe, Caucasian, with light-brown eyes, almost honey-looking pearls. Despite the apocalypse, he seems more composed and put together than others.

Somewhat organized black hair, a jacket that, despite the rough times it has passed, is as neat as something you would find in a thrift store, cargo military pants that have seen better days, and what once was a white shirt.

His combat boots made the ground beneath him crunch as he walked with steady steps, not in a rush but with a purpose.

With hope of finding the only thing that kept him alive for this long.

She used to be a soldier’s wife. The kind who waited months for a call that sometimes never came. When he returned, he brought the war home—shouts echoing through the concrete walls of their small house in Comayagüela, neighbors pretending not to hear. She stayed for her son. Always for her son.

Before the infection, you could find her hanging clothes on the line, while reggaetón drifted from a neighbor’s speaker, pretending the bruises were from bumping by accident. She knew every bus route by heart, from the crowded yellow school buses to the old Blue Bird that took her to the pulperia for rice and beans.

Now she wears an old football jersey, black leggings that have more stitches than fabric, and rubber sandals that slap the wet pavement with every step. Around her neck hangs her son’s dog tag, the only thing the plague didn’t take from her.

Her steps are the ones of someone who has lived through the worst storms—hurricanes, wars, and men—and still walks forward, not because she believes in salvation, but because stopping isn’t an option in Honduras.

In May, the rains came early, washing the streets of Comayagüela. The infection had taken almost everyone, but her memories of the past haunted her more than the plague.

Her husband, once a soldier, had returned from war with anger instead of love.

The bruises she hid weren’t from accidents, and the shouts at night were louder than the rain on their tin roof.

One Saturday evening, when he came home drunk and raised his fist toward Mateo, Barbara acted.

The kitchen knife was already in her hand.

By the time the neighbors came, she was sitting on the floor, holding her trembling son.

They buried him quietly, saying it was the plague.

Now she walks the ruined streets with Mateo’s hand in hers and his dog tag around her neck.

In a world where survival is the only rule, Barbara had already broken the worst one—and she didn’t regret it.

He wears this black “cazadora” that has seen better days, yet looks more expensive than any of the clothes the rest of us wear.

His eyes are black and deep. His smile is impenetrable. Almost fake or almost kind. Like the ones you would see in big banners during the traffic hour, banners with promises. A rehearsed smile.

Lorenzo doesn’t talk much. He says he talked nonstop all his life.

“It’s not worth it anymore. Not much to get by talking that much.”

He was president decades ago. One of those who never kept his promises. He mentored many candidates in his political party.  A man of big speeches and small actions. A type of man whose favorite book might be one by Machiavelli.

But now, Lorenzo couldn’t escape the reality of the people he once ruled.

The boy was maybe ten. Sold scraps of metal to get by. Always had a dog with him. And a smile, they said, that made you forget he had nothing.

They watched him trade the scraps for bread. Thought about helping him. Thought about fixing things for him. But they didn’t.

The next day, he was gone. Vanished. Street swallowed him whole. Maybe he found something better. Maybe the city just kept moving and didn’t care.

I didn’t care then. Do you think this is my karma?

White skin that looks like the sun has kissed non-stop, green eyes that remind you of emeralds. She is taller than the average girl. Her voice is deep but not cold, just high enough to be heard when necessary. Her deep red hair makes you question what source provided the dye hair. 

If she hadn’t told me sooner, I would have thought she was a waitress at a low-budget buffet and not an ex-high school teacher. Her baggy shirt has what used to be the design of a band, a Christian mother would think is satanic. Her black jeans are ripped, although I'm not sure if it’s because of the amount of chaos they've been through or because that is her style, and those combat boots… 

I’m sure she stole from a dead body. 

Her steps are the ones of someone with determination and purpose

I don’t, it’s all vague and messy.

The only thing I remember is a voice, the voice of a woman. Warm, soothing, calm, like there was no rush in what she was telling me…

I don’t remember her name, but I remember a story she used to tell us whenever she visited the shelter when I was a kid. For some reason, I always thought that she was just talking to me, no one else…

It’s curious, though, the story won’t be considered something you would share with kids, but we were orphans. Who was going to stop her if there weren’t any parents or people who cared, besides her?

She told us a story about a friend she had. She was her colleague and then later on her best friend. They enjoyed their jobs, teaching kids at a public school and going to orphanages to teach kids for free; they did the most they could to bring joy and happiness to their students. The school they worked at always arranged events and fundraising activities, but somehow neither the teacher nor the students ever got a benefit from the money they collected.

She told us her friend, the beautiful and kind-hearted woman with values and a sense of justice, had a feeling that something was wrong with the school’s director. One day, she reunited all the teachers to share her suspicions. The others agreed with her but didn’t want to get involved until there was solid proof that he was stealing the money. So, like the good wanna be detective she was, she started to gather information. 

The woman told us her friend got so obsessed with finding the truth that sometimes she didn’t sleep. Until one day, she called her colleagues and told them to reunite as quickly as possible at a coffee shop. She had found solid proof that the director was stealing from everyone. When the time came to talk, all of them were waiting for her. 

One hour, then two, twenty missed calls, 4 cups of coffee, and everyone leaving but her. It was when she realized that her friend wouldn’t come. She was hoping she would be at home, sleeping on the couch because of the exhaustion of the past months of investigation, but when she got there, she didn’t find her. The realization hit her; something had happened to her friend. 

She grabbed her phone as quickly as possible to call the police and tell them her friend had disappeared, only for them to dismiss her and tell her that “Maybe she is at a friend’s house and probably doesn’t want to answer. She will probably answer tomorrow.” 

She tried to believe them. So, with a knot in her throat, she went to bed praying that her friend would come home soon.

But, the truth is, survival doesn’t always look like hope. The city is alive, yes—but it’s broken in its own way. Hunger still follows us. Guns still decide who eats and who doesn’t. Families sell what little they have for a plate of food. Children sleep on sidewalks. The rich live behind tall fences, while the poor fight over scraps.

We came searching for safety, but safety here is just another kind of prison.

Barbara lights her candles not only for the dead, but for the living.

Carlos no longer holds his rifle all the time; he uses his hands to help build shelters.

Lorenzo, the man who once held a country in his grip, now carries water for strangers.

And Elizabeth… she has started teaching again. Children gather around her, their voices rising in laughter, reminding us that the future still exists.

As for me, I still pray. But now, my prayers are no longer for death, nor for escape. They are for hope. For the strength to rebuild, for the courage to forgive, and for the chance to live as more than survivors.

Because maybe the road didn’t end here. Maybe it began.