The Aburrá River, once a crystalline ribbon reflecting the high Andean sky, had begun to surrender its purity to the march of industry.
As it wound past the outskirts of the settlement, the water no longer ran clear over the stones. Instead, it carried a milky, ghost-like pallor—the chalky signature of Carlos's Roman cement works, leaving a fine, pale silt clinging to the reeds like a premature shroud.
Near the distilleries, the air grew heavy with the cloying, fermented scent of flavored spirits. Where the copper stills were washed, the current took on a strange, oily shimmer—a thin, prismatic film resting on the surface like spilled ink.
Further downstream, where the small steel forges burned through the night, the riverbanks were stained with the burnt-orange hue of iron waste. The rhythmic clanging of hammers seemed to echo through the water itself, which now carried a faint metallic tang—foreign to the cattle that knelt to drink.
It was not yet a dead river.
