In the town of San Pita, near the plaza and below the bells of the old monastery, stood the weeping statue of Saint Agnes. It had been cut from a large stone pulled from the mountains and was very old. Sometimes tears would well up from cracks around her eyes and they'd worn deep grooves down her cheeks. When the statue wept, the bells would be rung and all the people who lived in the town would come to see it and pray.

The weeping statue had been both famous and forgotten many times, until most recently when a young priest arrived to see the statue for himself. The town welcomed him and made a room for the priest above a small canteen that served sweet breads and lechon, and smelled of strong coffee in the afternoon. Next door lived a maker of guitars and most often he would whistle all day long and play a new guitar every night.

After his morning prayers each day, the priest went to the weeping statue and then he would return to the canteen. In his journal the priest made notes of what he had seen.

"The statue does not weep today," he'd write, and after a moment he would put his pencil down.

The guitar maker had a daughter remarkable for her beauty. Her hair was thick and black and she always wore a yellow dress with a blue apron as she swept her father's shop. She had an affection for jewelry, for bracelets and bangles, and the girl had a great many that she would wear all at once. The girl would jingle softly when she moved and the sound made the priest look up and he'd watch her dance.

The priest and the girl had grown fond of each other over the passing days and weeks. She would linger with her broom until the priest returned from the statue and then sweep for his pleasure. She tried to hide her eyes beneath her hair and the priest stroked his jaw to disguise his smile, and they would sit together every afternoon to drink coffee and talk.

Very often the girl would listen to the priest as he spoke of his many travels. At other times, she told him of the town and the people living there, leaning close to whisper gossip and blush at her mischief. Only rarely did they speak of the weeping statue, but one day the priest asked her about it.

"The statue will only weep when someone is born," the girl told him, "or when someone dies."

After many months had passed, the priest received a letter. He would have to leave soon. The statue did not weep and he had other duties in other places. He hid the letter and refused to speak of it with anyone. He spent his last few hours with the girl, smiling as she gave him her eyes and drank her coffee. Her hands would flutter and wave. The jingling of her bangles and bracelets mixed with her laughter until the priest couldn't tell them apart. He told her of distant and wonderful places, watching her dark eyes while the girl's imagination ran wild. She invented romantic adventures, sharing them eagerly while he listened and told her, "Just so, my dear ... Just so."

The next morning the girl waited for the priest until her heart had broken and that night the statue wept for her.