The day dawned with a cloudy sky and gray winds, as if the weather itself dared to evoke the tragedy of 65 years ago. Since then, the children of Cuba have brought flowers to Camilo Cienfuegos, a revolutionary lost in the mystery of a flight with no return.

These are not sumptuous bouquets, nor does the ceremony involve grand speeches; instead, they are humble flowers that the young pioneers offer, just as their parents and grandparents did before them, in quiet gestures of remembrance.

I made sure my daughter took the flowers. Her grandfather, my father, went out at dawn to find a bouquet. For eighty pesos, he returned home with a modest offering: a "príncipe negro" with half-open red petals and a Manita de la Reina.

In his small bouquet, between the deep red and velvet-like petals, there was something more than just the cost of the money; there was the memory of the years, of the sacrifices made by each generation so that the children could honor the man with the wide-brimmed hat, the beloved man of the people.

Later, my daughter would tell me that at school they placed their flowers on a table. It was almost like a tapestry of the island itself: Manitas de la Reina, small bunches of bright red Ixora, poppies known as marpacíficos, perhaps asking for peace for the man lost in the waters.

She also saw white flowers, though she couldn’t provide further details. Could they have been gardenias? Hydrangeas? Maybe carnations. It was a simple image, yet beautiful: each flower an offering in itself, a color, a fragrance.

I think the love and devotion that Cubans offer to Camilo has to do with something more than his place in history. His genuine laugh, his courage, and the way he connected with the people as one of them earned him a place that generations have refused to forget.

We remember the stories, the coffee shared in a cup with condensed milk before a battle, the jokes with his comrades, his gestures of friendship and brotherhood. Attempts have been made to push Camilo into oblivion, but there is something stronger than time and speculation: the affection of his people.

On this day, in the corner of a table, the children offer their flowers humbly. These are flowers for a memory that is nurtured with the affection of a grandfather who rises early to find a bouquet, with the love of a mother who ensures her daughter takes part in a ritual of devotion.

Camilo may be lost in the secrets of an October 28th, yes, but in every gesture, in every modest flower, there is that promise: the dark days have not stolen from the people their attachment to, and remembrance of, the man who was once theirs.

Translated by Linet Acuña Quilez