In 2012, Clarisa and Adrian, a young couple from Valencia who had recently gotten married, decided to take their dream trip to the United States. Their final destination was Josha Tree National Park, an emblematic place of desert beauty and deep spirituality. Lovers of motherhood, they wanted to spend a few days disconnected from the world to celebrate the latest chapter in their lives: becoming parents. But what began as a loving bird ended as one of the most disconcerting disappearances of the last decade.

The last image of them was published on social media on April 16 of that year. She, Clarisa, seven months pregnant, was seen in front of the yellow tent, with Andrés hugging her from behind. She was radiant, happy. “The desert embraces us,” he wrote in the description. But the next day, communications were cut off. There were no more calls, messages, or traces. The worried family notified the authorities. A frantic search then began.

Helicopters circled over the park. Volunteers, officers, and guides covered miles under the blazing sun and icy roads. Maps, routes, and official entrances to the park were analyzed. Nothing. The store was found intact, with food, backpacks, and water. But the couple had disappeared, leaving no trace. Many suspected kidnapping, others an accident. But without bodies, there were no answers. Only silence.

Over the years, the case faded away. Social media continued to remember Clarisa every anniversary. In Valencia, her parents recorded the candle that had passed along with the last ultrasound she had emailed. The baby’s name would be Eva. Hope, however, was beginning to fade.

Eleven years later, in April 2023, a Nevada hiker, accustomed to exploring forgotten trails in the Josha Tree, stumbled upon what he first thought was a strange rock. It was a backpack covered in dirt. Upon opening it, he found a cloth bracelet with the inscription “Clarissa and Eva.” Trembling, he continued digging. And there it was: two skeletons, half buried, embracing. The one belonging to Andrés had its arm extended toward her, as if protecting her. Clarissa’s, with her torso tilted, and inside her pelvic cavity, the impossible: a small fetal skeleton.

The news shook all of Spain. Images of the discovery didn’t take long to make headlines. The park was temporarily closed for a full foreclosure investigation. It was confirmed that the remains belonged to Clarisa and Aadrés. She was still wearing some of her clothing, now worn by time. There were no signs of violence. Evidence indicated that Clarisa collapsed due to self-imposed coercion. Aпdrés, without any energy to seek help, decided to stay with her until the end.

A codebreaker was also found. On it, Andrew had written fragments of condolences, paragraphs of guidance, and pages addressed to his families. “If anyone reads this, tell our parents that we love them. That we love them until the last second. And that Eve is the greatest gift, that we may see her grow up.”

The letters were shared with family members and were not made public. But one of the forerunners confessed: “There had never been such a deep silence like that place. It was as if the entire desert had been sheltering in the air for a decade.”

Spanish society reacted with a mixture of grief, solidarity, and questions. Tributes were held in Valencia, where the square was renamed in memory of Clarisa, Apadrés, and Eva. Dozens of letters from people who were with the co-workers arrived from all over Europe. They all spoke of courage, love, and the tragedy of losing three lives in the middle of the fight.

To this day, mysteries continue to emerge. The sederista who found them claims to have followed the path he had previously seen marked. A trail of strangely arranged stones led him to the exact spot. But when he returned weeks later with a journalist, the path had disappeared. The desert had changed. Or it had protected its secret once again.

And as science and time unravel the events of this story, the question remains between the cacti and shadows of Josha Tree:

¿Fυerп eпcoпtrados… o algυieп qυería qυe por fiп fυerп eпcoпtrados?

At birth, the little elephant Zhuangzhuang experienced his first great pain: his own mother mourned him as soon as he came into the world.

That day’s dawn promised to be historic for the conservation center of wildlife in southern Asia. After 22 months of gestation, the largest female elephant in the enclosure was preparing to give birth. The keepers had been sleeping fearfully near the corral for weeks, attentive to any sign.

Elephant calves are always a hopeful event. Not only because of what it means to bring life to an endangered species, but also because each calf also represents victory over illegal trafficking and poaching. Elephants, often cultured, symbolize strength, wisdom, and family protection.

No one in that center imagined that what was about to happen would become one of the most painful and moving stories ever recorded there.

The unexpected rejection

The little one arrived amidst damp earth, steam, and shouts of joy. The caregivers breathed a sigh of relief: he was a strong male, weighing just over 100 kilos, with shiny skin and ears still attached to his body. He clumsily crawled to his mother’s womb, seeking warmth and food.

But what was supposed to be a provocative gesture of respect turned into violence. Instead of bringing him close with her trunk, his mother roughly pushed him onto the floor. The festive atmosphere turned into silence and confusion.

“At first, we thought it was an accident, something common in the clumsiness of the moment,” recalls Rahim, one of the caregivers. “But then we saw her look: there wasn’t pain, there was rejection. Something about her: she wanted him near.”

I’d like to bring the little one closer. Biologists are talking about postpartum stress, a rare but documented reaction in some first-time mothers. However, the unthinkable happened: the mother raised her paw and stepped on him.

The first night of llaпto

The little elephant was immediately taken away. He had wounds in his side and bleeding through his eye. The veterinarians quickly treated him, while he emitted high-pitched cries, a mixture of pain and fear. That night, lying on wood in his makeshift room, the scene occurred that would forever change who heard him.

She cried. She cried for five hours straight, with deep sobs that seemed like those of a small child. The workers, accustomed to dealing with the harshness of wildlife, could not hold back their tears. The sound pierced walls, hallways, and hearts.

“He wasn’t crying because he was hungry. He was crying because he had lost his mother,” confesses Aisha, the volunteer who accompanied him that first night. “It was real pain, a tear that no painkiller could heal.”

The difficult decision

At dawn, those responsible for the scepter made the inevitable decision: to permanently separate him from his mother. To separate him again was to condemn him to death.

Thus began the hardest stage for the little one, who soon received a name:  Zhυaпgzhυaпg . Eп madarí means “strong, resist”. A baptism that seemed more like a wish than reality.

The caregivers would take turns giving him bottles of special milk, caressing him, and monitoring his breathing. By then, the maternal emptiness was evident. He would fall asleep alone. He would actively seek out touch, pressing his nose against any warm surface as if he wanted to cling to something that reminded him of his mother’s body.

The unexpected bond

In the midst of this panorama, a key figure emerged: Arpu, a 28-year-old caregiver. At first, his task was simply to feed him and clean his space. But little by little, something changed.

“He looked at me as if he expected me to give him back what he had lost,” she says. “I couldn’t let him cry. So I lay down next to him, and then he calmed down. From that moment on, he didn’t let me walk away.”

Arpu became his adoptive mother. She slept next to him, stroked his back until he fell asleep, and spoke to him in a low voice to calm him down. Zhuagzhuagp followed him everywhere, imitating his movements as if she had been made to do so.

The bond transcended the biological. There, in front of everyone, the new form of family was being formed.

The social debate

The story soon leaked on social media. Photographs of the little elephant with red eyes and the caregiver hugging him circled everywhere. Thousands of comments spoke of terror, but also of bewilderment.

How could a mother reject her child? Was it a fault of parenthood or a consequence of captivity?

Experts explained that, although rare, there are documented cases of elephants rejecting their children due to stress, problems, or even because they perceive some weakness in the offspring. However, what most shocked the public was the parallel with human reality: the abandonment of newborns, mothers unable to raise children, children seeking refuge in adoptive families.

Zhυaпgzhυaпg’s case became a symbol of a larger debate:  What does it really mean to be a mother or a father?  Is it just a biological bond, or is the capacity to care and love truly covenantal?

Second chance

Months later, the little elephant began to gain weight. His physical wounds would heal, but his emotional ones would take longer. However, thanks to the patience of Arpa and the team, he began to appear more confident, cheerful, and curious.

“When we see him run, we can’t help but remember that first night,” admits one of the vets. “That cry left its mark on us. It taught us that even with animals, the pain of the bereaved is real, deep, and needs love to heal.”

Zhυaпgzhυaпg grew stronger, becoming a symbol of resistance. Visitors from all over the world came to meet him. Many came away with tears in their eyes, moved by the story of the elephant who survived the most brutal rejection thanks to the hug of his brother.

Beyond the tera

But history isn’t just a case of hope. It’s also a warning. Experts point out that behind every viral aepodute lies a complex context: habitat loss, stress in captivity, disconnection from maternal cycles.

Zhυaпgzhυaпg’s case forces us to reflect on the fragility of motherhood, both animal and human, and moments of pressure. It reminds us that motherhood does not always respond with pain, and that love must sometimes be built in unexpected places.

Epilogue

Today, years later, Zhuagzhujag continues to live in the scepter. Arpu remains by his side, and now I can sleep with him: the elephant has grown too big. However, every time I look at it, I perceive something profound. A connection that was pain, but that transformed into lasting love.

“In the end,” Arpu says, “he taught me more than I taught him. He taught me that family isn’t always the one you get, it’s the one that chooses you.”

And perhaps that is why, every time someone comes to the center and asks about that elephant that cried for five hours the night it died, the guardians respond with a smile:
“Yes, it’s still here.” And it continues to remind us that even the bitterest tears can become seeds of hope.