In the beginning there was nothing. I can barely remember how I arrived here. It was over 100 years ago, perhaps even longer. Time has clung to my walls and corners, slipping away. Years pass, and only the stories of those who come and go remain.

The wind and silence flow through the altiplano of San Luis Potosi, but the stories endure. Stories told by the elders like Socorro, María, Cayo, Cleotilde, and so many others. Stories of those who started here, like Don
Pantaleón, who witnessed my birth. Of those who left when times began to turn sour, and of those who stayed despite it all.

Don Pantaleón saw it clearly. He told me this would last for many years. That the sun and wind ran through my veins. That life would sprout from my blood. That from the never-ending life in the scorching earth, mezcal would flow abundantly.

Don Luis soon pacified the anger, like rain soothes the heat. He was a man of ideas. Here, if you don't do what it takes to survive, you wither away. It's a special place, but let me tell you: it demands every day to give your all, to confront everything in order to keep on living.

In the 1950s, technology was brought in from outside. That's when my appearance changed once again. My walls, my mills, became more modern. The song of beasts ceased, replaced by the roar of engines, and Don Luis saw in my essence the opportunity for alchemy.

We began crafting mezcal differently. We began making it better.

Don Luis pledged himself to time and succeeded in accumulating the testament within me, not taking it away.

Those who visit me see in me how dreams have passed through rooms, stills, and ovens. I am the original dream of Don Pantaleón, Encarnación, Don Luis, and those who came after. I am the unbreakable and infinite pact with this mezcal community. I belong to the fields and their witches and spirits. This reliquary of promises, born from the heart, lives on in a “Júrame” that became mezcal to transcend words. Only our actions remain—nothing more.

Shortly after, Don Luis passed away. He had little time to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Following him, there were ups and
downs, seasons of change. My doors remained closed for over30 years, and grass grew around me, but the
oath never expired. There were caretakers who watched over me, ensuring that no harm would befall me, so that I could continue to exist. For those 30 years, I stood witness, a testament that the oath would not be broken.

Such pauses are an inherent part of life.

The town was no longer the same. Nevertheless, they always cared and never dared to invade or harm me. Many departed, but there were also those who stayed or returned to work here, alongside me, to carry on the legacy, just as their elders did.

In this way, they felt connected to something greater. Sometimes one does not choose, but is fortunate to be born with a calling. They, like me, were born for mezcal.

And fortunately, they listened. Because that's the kind of people here, resilient and true to their word.

Years later, they returned, with even greater determination than before. They were a little older, and I had the weight of age upon me. Yet, the sparkle in their eyes never waned. Everything flowed once more.

Mezcal blossomed, and this time it surpassed all previous iterations. It was as if all the dreams of the past and present had become intertwined with me, the ovens, the stills, and the mills.

This mezcal carried the flavors of past loves, aspirations, dreams, and the enduring efforts of all the time that came before. It was as if unbroken promises could be aged and preserved to tell us later that they are even better, more valuable, and deserving of our utmost commitment to safeguard them.