Cemetery of San Juan, talk to me. Tell me your secrets, what you know to be true.

In the land of dust and mountains and rustling wind that whips up in the night stealing the deeply veined leaves from the fresh green mora trees. Home to the Festival of the Sun and its 19 beauty queens, and the howling dogs that keep me from sleeping in the barrio of Cabot.

Give me something. Anything. A clue of what lies beyond. For if anywhere, this should be a place that knows. A sign from the howling souls or the ones that rest in peace, in the well-kept tombs and the ones left to rot. Something to comfort, to connect the dots, to make sense of it all.