It was a late autumn afternoon, the kind where the sun hurries toward the horizon, leaving the sky streaked with shifting colors and long, soft shadows. I hadn’t planned to come to the Church of Las Salinas. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, a quiet escape from the noise of everyday life. I parked a short distance away and walked slowly, feeling the rough texture of the ground under my feet and listening to the faint crash of the waves in the distance.
The church stood there, quiet and timeless, its worn facade telling stories of another era. Once, its walls must have held the echoes of prayers and songs, but now silence had taken over. It wasn’t an empty silence, though—it was a welcoming one, as if the place invited you to stop, to take a moment, and to listen with more than just your ears.
I sat down at the edge of the wooden path, facing the church, letting the cool evening breeze wash over me. My camera rested in my hands, but I wasn’t in a hurry to shoot. I wanted more than just a photo. I wanted to capture what I felt: the vastness of the sky, brushed with soft, fading light, and the quiet weight of the mountains in the distance, standing like guardians of this forgotten corner.
As I adjusted the lens, an elderly man walked by, leaning on his cane. He stopped when he saw me, offering a kind smile.
“Beautiful place, isn’t it?” he said, his voice steady and warm.
I nodded.
“This used to be the heart of the salinas,” he continued, gesturing toward the church. “The workers would gather here after their shifts, grateful for what this land gave them. It’s been years now… but it still holds its magic, don’t you think?”
I nodded again, wanting to say more but unsure of what words could match the moment. With a small tilt of his head, he turned and continued on his way toward the beach, leaving me with his words—and a strange, bittersweet feeling.
As the last of the sunlight faded, leaving a deep purple glow in the sky, I took a few final moments to breathe it all in. The crisp air, the sound of the distant waves, the quiet presence of the church—it all felt like more than a scene. It felt alive, a piece of history lingering in the present.
When I finally drove away, I glanced back through the rearview mirror. The church was still there, its silhouette standing firm against the growing night. I couldn’t help but smile. Some places stay with you long after you leave, and I knew this was one of them. I would come back, because places like this don’t just call to you once. They become a part of you.