Paradise isn’t like they painted it to be. Sometimes it’s an island where there’s only you and the "monte". But the "monte" is never empty. In its shadow, something watches, almost invisible, holding its breath. She notices them. She always has. It isn’t fear what she feels. It’s recognition. The land is alive; it has been speaking for centuries. Can you hear it too? ........................................... Monte, in Cuban culture, is the wild forest that surrounds the fields; a sacred space where nature, spirits, and memory converge.