Baitoa was a hollow between gentle hills from where a giant cassava was once pulled out, as the filmmaker’s grandmother used to tell. That story held the mysteries of a landscape and the nostalgia for a place that changes with the rhythm of those who inhabit it—or leave it behind. As with many families who migrated, Baitoa was always a return to that mystery, to tales and legends of enchanted caves, natives and runaway slaves, gold flakes on the dry banks of the Yaque River, or unnamed violences. This story, and many others that Juan Alfonso Zapata recorded in these fields, do not distinguish between the real, the mythological, or the imaginary within his own memories. In the end, the significance of the matter—between migrations, family secrets, and rivers that no longer give life—lies in the storytelling that seeks what still shines through the cracks.