The Mother of the Coffee
In the high mountains, where the road narrows and intentions grow pure, lived the unknown coffee farmer. Her name was never recorded in registers, yet her hands left their mark on the soil and in every bean that ripened slowly. She greeted dawn before light awoke, praying to the earth in silence, planting seedlings as one entrusts a secret to the heart of the mountain. She knew when the tree thirsted, when it needed patience, and when it would bear fruit without haste as if she listened closely to time itself.
She asked for no glory and awaited no thanks. It was enough for her that the aroma rose when the coffee was roasted, and that the warmth of the cup reached the hands of strangers. Thus she remained present in the flavor, absent from the name a woman who taught the mountains the meaning of giving, and taught coffee to carry the story of those unseen, yet never forgotten.