The Tampaón River is a whisper of water flowing through the Huasteca Potosina, but within its current, within its turquoise depths, it held a secret. A mystery that remained hidden for five long years, until nature, with relentless force, decided to end the silence. What the river revealed was not a treasure, but a fragment of a tragic story, the missing piece in the puzzle of a disappearance that had frozen the blood of a family.

It all began one November morning in 2007. Héctor Morales Vega, 56, and his wife María del Carmen Ruiz Hernández, 55, smilingly walked down a trail toward the Tamul waterfall. They were a quiet, childless couple who had built their happiness on hikes and outdoor adventures. The photograph they took before beginning the descent is the last evidence of their happiness, a silent testimony to a life dedicated to exploration. In the image, captured by a vintage digital camera, both smile with the serenity of those who have found their rhythm in the world. Héctor, with his sun-tanned skin, a discreet mustache flecked with gray, and a cap that protects him from the Potosí sun. Behind him is a camping backpack that, like its owner, seems to have hiked many trails. María, with her hair tied back in a practical braid, a floral blouse, and a fleece vest, wears a necklace of dark beads that always accompanies her. Both look prepared, ready for a sacred weekend of connection with nature.

Héctor and María were no amateurs. They were mountain veterans, with a history of hikes that spanned from Ajusco to La Marquesa. The Huasteca Potosina in November, during the low season, was their new adventure. The plan was simple and meticulous: arrive on Saturday, camp near the Tampaón River, and return on Sunday afternoon. They had agreed with María’s sister, Rosa Elena, to call from a Telmex booth on Sunday to confirm that everything was okay. A safety ritual they had never omitted in 30 years.

The preparation was impeccable. They bought local supplies, a new gas cartridge, and a laminated map, one of those sold in downtown stationery stores, where they marked their overnight spot with a red pen. They registered with the community authority, who gave them a clear warning: if it rains, the river rises in minutes and changes safe passages. Their equipment consisted of two experts: waterproof tarpaulins, plastic ponchos, headlamps with fresh batteries, and mummy-sized sleeping bags. Nothing was left to chance.

The descent to the Tamul waterfall, a journey of approximately two hours, passed as calmly as ever. María, the artist, photographed the wild orchids and rock formations. Héctor, the expert, checked the map, orienting himself with the geographical features. They crossed paths with other hikers, exchanging typical trail pleasantries. The last people to see them alive were two young men from Monterrey, returning from a day at the waterfall. It was approximately 5:30 p.m. The boys, unwittingly, took a panoramic photo of the spot, and when they zoomed in, they could see the figures of Héctor and María setting up camp in the distance.

The beach they had chosen was perfect: a natural clearing, protected from the wind, with a privileged view of the waterfall. The ideal place for a campfire, for a quiet night. But at dusk, the clouds began to thicken. It wasn’t unusual, but the downwind brought that sticky humidity that heralds rain. María, intuitively, suggested that it might be best to familiarize themselves with the sounds of the river before nightfall. They packed their ponchos and grabbed their flashlights. The laminated map, the guide to their adventure, accompanied them on their reconnaissance hike.

The dawn of Sunday, November 18th, brought a disturbing discovery. The community members found the camp abandoned. The tent, half-closed, as if someone had left in a hurry. The stove, prepared but never lit, with the firewood expertly arranged. María’s backpack leaned against a rock. Héctor’s lamp, without fresh batteries. The blue bottle, empty and covered in damp earth. The footprints leading toward the riverbank disappeared after a few meters, erased by a heavy early morning rain. There were no signs of violence, but neither were there any indications of an orderly departure. Everything suggested haste, not panic. The laminated map, however, had disappeared.

The real alarm went off when Rosa Elena, María’s sister, didn’t receive the expected call. Knowing her sister’s punctuality, she knew something was wrong. On Monday morning, she went to the Narvarte neighborhood police station to report the disappearance.

Years passed. The Tampaón River continued its course, without revealing its secret. The family