Leave somewhere for long enough and it changes without you. In Ya no estoy aquí, a Monterrey teenager is forced from the cumbia crew he lives for and watches, from exile, as that world comes apart.

For Rocio who left a village in Durango at twelve and stopped going back once the violence arrived, it holds a feeling almost anyone who has left will recognise.

On saudade, and what survives it.

The colonizers had a word for it: el buen salvaje, the native who learned the manners of the men who came.

On Calle de Serrano an old man with a rosary at his throat tells Martín Ramos he ought to be grateful — saved, as he puts it, from cannibalism. In a bar, a woman mistakes him for the help. Newly divorced, ten thousand kilometres from a Mexico City that has begun to feel invented, he takes a flat in Lavapiés that catches no sun but what the neighbour's window gives back, and waits there for the small stillnesses to return.