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    "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,


    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."


    —Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven


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    Caligo is Latin for a dense mist or darkness that hides even your hands. It''s despair and mystery, a dark sorrow stained with poetry.


    Some memories are better left buried in the inaccessible corners of our minds, those that bring vivid images of an unwanted past or bittersweet scents of our mistakes. Mistakes we wouldn''t have made if we''d known what maddening rage was about to fall upon us, like a painful, slow-burning death. But the terrible paradox is that avoiding them is impossible until they happen. Still, we wish we could change reality, and when we can''t, all we have left is to erase or hide those memories forever.


    The first time I saw him was in a dream, and I still remember every detail of it. We stood on a beach of golden sand, where the waves didn''t speak and the sun rose on a still horizon. I felt older than my years, and he looked young yet somehow paternal. Back then, I''d never seen him before—he was just a stranger in a dream—yet I didn''t understand how magical that was. His pale skin glowed like it was made of diamonds, and his greenish eyes held the sorrows of an entire universe. He wore white, and I could see his bare feet gently caressing the same sand that felt harsh under mine. He smiled and whispered in words I didn''t know but understood effortlessly, his voice brushing my ears like a cold breeze in the desert. I knew then he''d find me no matter where I went.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    I knew then he was the beginning of my story.


    I was never one to believe in magic; fairytales had no place in my wretched world. I locked myself in a cage of my own creation, walls protecting my mind from the cruel reality, learning to silently stare, hiding from the fate I knew haunted me—unaware of love or affection, used to violence and hurt. My mother never loved me; I was more a burden to her, one she would''ve cast off much sooner.


    I was eight years old and silent as a grave. Anyone who crossed my path would shudder, muttering curses under their breath, as if I wore a monster''s skin only they could see. Every soul that met me whispered about me—afraid of my gaze, my stillness, the fact I never felt the need to speak. And when I did, she made sure I regretted it. Every word cost me a tooth, her always-cold hands crashing against my mouth, blood dripping down like a cascade of unspoken hurt. So I learned silence was safer. Wanting nothing was safer. Keeping my thoughts buried was the only way to survive.


    My mother was a turbulent woman, one with many stories—real or not, I''m not sure they''re worth knowing. She was once a beautiful dancer at a cabaret, or maybe in theaters; I can''t remember well. All I know is she had a reputation, and her beauty spoke for itself. A lioness or a devilish being—both would describe her in the eyes of those who fell at her feet and surrendered their souls. Yet the bitterness of her failures dragged her down and landed her in an alley, selling herself for a pair of coins.


    "If they''d buy my soul for a little more, I''d give it to them—and maybe yours too," she''d slur with a lazy tongue and the breath of pubs. "But who''d want my soul... or yours? Who''d ever want you?"


    I''d been born a mistake and was always treated as such. Doomed to blindly watch the tiny world I was allowed to know, I became familiar with the sounds of sin and pleasure, pain and lust, all at once, painting images of them in my mind. She locked me in a chest at the foot of the bed where she took her clients, and there I lay for hours, sometimes days. "Don''t you dare breathe, little wastrel!" she''d command, shoving me inside, and I''d nod silently—resisting was painful and pointless.


    The air inside grew thick and humid, and the scent of oak became repulsive. The old wood creaked if I moved, and the suffocating heat of my own breath tormented me. Darkness was my home, but my ears learned to catch every sound in the most incredible way. I never saw the faces that entered that vicious room, but I knew them by their voices, the way their shoes tapped the floor—whether they had canes or long feet, if they were poor or rich, how they knocked, how they moaned when pleasure peaked. She, though? Nothing but breathless gasps. She was a lifeless creature I detested—none of them good enough for her, yet she was worse than them all. I was no more to her than that chest, and she hated my voice, so I never used it. I built realities instead, well-kept in my head, where I became every one I''d ever heard sounds of. I impersonated them for a while and humiliated her, hurt her, told her everything I''d always wanted to say but didn''t; I owned their fancy or terrible lives and became free, only in my head, and maybe that kept me sane enough for that time.


    I was glad when she finally got rid of me, though I didn''t suspect it''d be the beginning of it all.


    On a rain-soaked night in September, she left me at the doorstep of a stranger she''d met in a bar. That stranger was Victor Casta?eda—a man of fifty, wrapped in wealth and chilling whispers. Where truth was scarce, rumors grew: they said he practiced dark rituals, summoned demons to erase his enemies—maybe because he had none. Always in black, marked by some occult emblem, he avoided society except for rare, exclusive events. No family, no friends, just a mansion full of dusty antiques and secrets. But they were right about one thing: he had no heir, no soul to shape in his image, to carry his name and will. And so I became that soul.


    Barely able to walk, a sack of bones and wounded flesh, I shivered in the cold rain at his doorstep for hours. I didn''t have the courage to knock, so I waited until someone opened the door. The maiden was young and pretty like a peony, her cinnamon skin warm against big brown eyes that watched me with curiosity. She whispered something I couldn''t hear, then called for her master. Victor Casta?eda stared at me for a long minute, trying to figure out why I was at his dusky mansion that late night.


    I remembered the note my mother wrote—crumpled in my hand, soaked by rain, the ink blurred. It was all I had, so I gave it to him. He held it in his long, bony hands for a moment that stretched forever, then looked at me with confusion, hope, and sadness in his eyes. He let me in, draping his coat over my shoulders, soothing my hopeless cry.


    That night, I forgot the cold and hunger. I sat at a large table across from a man who looked at me like I was the most incredible thing he''d ever seen. It unsettled me, but I was too caught up in the feast to care. That night was the first of many, but none would feel like it—not because the others mattered less, quite the opposite, but because that night was a sunrise, the start of a new life. Victor Casta?eda took my weightless hand, looked into my eyes, and said with a voice I swore I''d heard before, "Welcome home, son."


    And I felt his grip so tight it spoke for itself, and I believed him. I believed he''d never let me go.


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