The Horse Without Reins

He dragged his mother by the hair as if she were nothing but garbage.

But he never imagined what a horse would do next.

It was one of those afternoons when the sun beat mercilessly on the tin rooftops, and the heat slipped through the cracks of every house as if it wanted to bury itself deep into the bones. In the small town of Santa Brígida del Sol—where time moved slower than anywhere else—chickens scratched at the dry dirt of the yards and an old dog napped beneath a stubborn mesquite tree, clinging to life in the dust.

Inside the house at number 14 on Las Gaviotas Street, an old woman swept her dirt floor with slow, fragile strokes. Her name was Eulalia Ramírez. She was almost seventy-eight, her wheat-colored skin darkened by decades of sun. Her frame was thin, her braid of gray hair falling loosely over her shoulder, as delicate as she was.

Her green eyes, dimmed by years of sorrow, no longer carried the sparkle they once had, but there was still a quiet strength in them—an endurance that refused to vanish. She wore a frayed burgundy shawl, a hand-embroidered white blouse, and a long skirt brushing her ankles. She never wore shoes.

She always said barefoot she could feel the earth—and maybe hear heaven’s whispers too. But that evening, more than the warmth of the ground, she felt the weight of years, of silence, and of the son she once cradled in her arms… the same son who had stolen her laughter, her voice, and even her right to be seen.

From the kitchen came the sharp bang of a door. The dog froze. The chickens scattered. And Eulalia stood still, her heart tightening. She knew that sound too well.

“Where’s the coffee?” A harsh, impatient voice thundered.
“You didn’t do anything again, Mama.”

It was Regino Ramírez, her only son. Thirty-five, tall, broad-shouldered, his face hard, his beard unkempt, his black hair messy. His hands bore the calluses of field work, but his soul carried wounds far deeper.

Eulalia swallowed. “It’s on the table, son. It might have gone cold.”

“What good is cold coffee?” he snapped, shoving a chair aside.

The air inside the house grew heavy, stretched thin like a rope about to snap. Eulalia walked quietly to the table, careful not to meet his eyes. She knew too well that any wrong move could trigger shouting, shoving… or worse.

But she never judged him. She never cursed him. She still loved him.

Even when he grabbed her by the hair that day. Even when he dragged her through the dust like a sack of trash.

Her frail body scraped against the hot ground. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders, left behind like a silent scream. Neighbors heard her cries, but no one stepped in. In small towns, fear is inherited too.

Regino dropped her in the middle of the yard like discarded debris. Dust clung to her face, blood trickled from her elbow. She stayed on her knees, trembling, whispering only one word through cracked lips:

“Jesus… Jesus… don’t let go of me.”

And then—when her hope was at its thinnest—he appeared.

From the far end of the road came the shape of a horse. A brown stallion, strong and shining, with no rider, no reins, no owner. Its black mane flowed like a river of night, and on its forehead gleamed a white mark shaped like a cross.

It walked with purpose. Straight toward her. Straight toward him.

Regino froze. The horse planted itself between mother and son. Its deep eyes fixed on him, not with anger, but with something far worse for a guilty man: truth.

Regino’s fists tightened. “Move, beast!” he shouted.

But the animal didn’t move.

Instead, it rose high on its hind legs, letting out a thunderous neigh that echoed across the street. Its hooves struck the earth with the force of a drumbeat from heaven. Dust swirled. Regino stumbled backward, falling to the ground, his heart pounding with a fear he had never known.

Eulalia, still on her knees, looked up. Tears filled her eyes—not of pain, but of certainty. She knew then: this was her answer.

God had not sent an angel with wings. He had sent a horse without reins.