Ten Cuidado Con Lo Que Deseas [WORKING]

Desperate, he ran to his abuela.

In the center of his studio stood a sculpture he had never made. It was a woman, life-sized, carved from a single piece of jet-black stone that hadn’t been there before. Her face was beautiful beyond reason, but her expression… her expression was wrong. Her lips were parted in a silent scream, and her hands were raised as if pushing against an invisible wall.

Mateo couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move. He could only watch, trapped in his own masterpiece, as the world outside forgot his name and remembered only the sculpture—and the warning carved into its frozen face.

His abuela’s voice drifted through the door, muffled, speaking to a visitor: “He’s not here anymore, señor. But if you’re looking for art… there’s a new piece in his studio. Quite breathtaking. Ten cuidado con lo que deseas.” Ten cuidado con lo que deseas

That night, Mateo stood before the living statue. Her stone fingers had almost reached his throat now. The obsidian sphere pulsed like a black heart.

Mateo felt the floor tilt beneath him. “How do I undo it?”

Elena finally looked at him. Her eyes were wet. “You cannot un-wish. You can only make a new wish. But each wish carves a little more of you away. Are you willing to lose yourself to save her?” Desperate, he ran to his abuela

Be careful what you wish for.

He called the town. Word spread. Art critics from the capital took the winding mountain road to Valverde. They called it “The Caged Scream.” They called it “a visceral masterpiece of existential dread.” They paid him sums he’d never dreamed of.

“The sphere is old,” she said softly. “Older than the mountains. It gives wishes, yes. But it gives them the way a river gives water—it takes its price from the banks. The sculpture you have? That woman was a sculptor too, three hundred years ago. She wished for eternal beauty in her art. Now she is the art. And she will never stop screaming.” Her face was beautiful beyond reason, but her

But each night, the sculpture changed.

He carried the sphere to his studio, feeling a thrum of power up his arms. That night, half-asleep and drunk on cheap wine, he held the obsidian and whispered to the empty room: “I wish for a masterpiece. Something that will make the whole world remember my name.”

He froze.

Then he looked at his reflection in the window glass.