《Fragment》


 Six

    Dan woke up like any other day. The sun shone through the slightly opened curtains, and the soft sound of the wind swaying the tree branches outside his window felt familiar. He stretched slowly, with the sense that something wasn¡¯t quite right, though he couldn¡¯t pinpoint what. Beside him, Keke, his loyal gray-coated dog with drooping ears, slept deeply. Dan smiled at the sight of him so relaxed and gently petted his head.


    ¡°Today will be another normal day,¡± he thought, but there was something in the air, a slight vibration, a discomfort that he could barely describe. He got out of bed and looked around his room. Everything seemed in order, except for one small detail: the wall clock was stopped. It read 6:47, but not a second had passed since Dan had woken up.


    He checked his phone, but the screen remained black, no matter how many times he pressed the power button. Frowning, he muttered to himself, ¡°Maybe it just malfunctioned or something,¡± though he didn¡¯t remember leaving it without battery. He glanced back at the clock on the wall, and a chill ran down his spine when he noticed it now read 6:48.


    Dan shook his head, deciding to ignore the little unease that lingered, and went to get ready for work. As he dressed, he heard a soft noise behind him. Turning around, he saw Keke staring at him intently from the doorway. His gaze seemed sharper than usual, as if the dog knew something he didn¡¯t understand. ¡°Come on, Keke, it¡¯s just another day,¡± he said with a nervous smile. Keke didn¡¯t move.


    On his way to work, Dan noticed that the air had a different tint to it. People he usually saw around the neighborhood smiled at him in a way he couldn¡¯t quite understand. There was something in their smiles that made him uncomfortable. It wasn¡¯t a warm smile, not even a polite one. It was a smile... too perfect, too wide, as if they were imitating what they thought a friendly expression should be, but without truly understanding what it meant.


    Dan quickened his pace, gripping the leash of Keke a little more tightly than necessary. When he reached the bus stop, a man he hadn¡¯t seen before was sitting on the bench. He wore a gray suit that looked slightly faded, and his eyes never left Dan¡¯s. The man smiled the same way as the others, a smile that didn¡¯t seem human.


    Dan averted his gaze, uneasy, and checked the bus schedule. The digital sign also showed the wrong time: 6:47. The same time he had seen on his wall clock when he woke up.


    ¡°What the hell is going on?¡± Dan murmured, feeling his skin prickle. He decided to walk instead of waiting for the bus. The walk to work wasn¡¯t that long, and the fresh air would help clear his mind.


    Keke remained by his side, calm, but Dan couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that every time he glanced sideways at his dog, his eyes seemed fixed on something invisible¡ªsomething Dan couldn¡¯t see.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    When he arrived at the office, things became even stranger. All of his coworkers were at their desks, but no one made a sound. The keys didn¡¯t click, the phones didn¡¯t ring, the usual murmur of conversations was gone. And yet, everyone was smiling.


    ¡°Is there a joke I¡¯m missing?¡± Dan asked with a tone of forced cheer. No one responded, they just continued with their strained smiles.


    Dan¡¯s boss, Mr. Elian, walked out of his office and approached him directly. His smile was even more unsettling, and his eyes seemed empty. ¡°Dan, I¡¯m glad to see you. Today is a special day,¡± he said in a flat, almost robotic tone. Before Dan could ask what was so special, Mr. Elian simply turned and walked away.


    Dan sat at his desk, the unease growing inside him. He opened his computer, but the screen remained blank. There was no response, no usual hum, no icons¡ªjust a black void. ¡°This is too much,¡± he thought, getting up quickly from his seat. Keke was still by his side, but now Dan could feel the weight of his dog¡¯s gaze on him at all times.


    He decided he needed air, he needed to get out of there. When he reached the door, he stopped. Outside, people were still walking, but they all wore that same smile. Every face he saw, every pair of eyes that met his, was lit up by that empty grin.


    Keke let out a soft whine. Dan looked at him and, for a moment, saw something in his dog¡¯s eyes that he hadn¡¯t seen before: a deep understanding, an empathy that seemed human. ¡°What¡¯s going on, Keke?¡± he whispered, though he knew his dog couldn¡¯t answer.


    He decided to return home. Walking through the streets, the unease still didn¡¯t disappear. Every step he took seemed to resonate in his mind, as if the ground beneath his feet was firmer than usual, heavier. The smiles remained, at every corner, in every face. Dan started running, dragging Keke behind him, who barely resisted.


    When he reached his house, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it, panting. He looked at Keke, who was now sitting in the middle of the living room, staring at him once again.


    Dan collapsed onto the couch, trying to calm his breathing. He closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them, everything would be back to normal. But when he opened them, he wasn¡¯t in his living room. He was in his bedroom, standing next to his bed. The wall clock read 6:47.


    Keke was by his side, staring at him intently.


    Dan blinked, confused. Hadn¡¯t he just come from work? Hadn¡¯t he escaped the strange smiles? He looked around. Everything was exactly as it had been when he woke up that morning.


    A pang of panic shot through his chest. He ran to the door of his room, but when he opened it, he found himself in the same place: his room. The clock still read 6:47.


    Dan began to sweat. ¡°This can¡¯t be happening,¡± he whispered to himself. He took a step back and stumbled over Keke, who was still staring at him with those unsettling eyes. There was no emotion in them, just a kind of immutable knowledge.


    He decided to sit on the bed, his mind spinning in a thousand directions. Had he ever left his room? Had he really gone to work? Or had he been trapped in this moment the whole time?


    Minutes passed, though the clock remained stuck at 6:47. Outside, the wind swayed the tree branches in the same way it always had. Everything was exactly the same as before. Dan closed his eyes, trying to relax, convinced he just needed a break.


    ¡°Maybe if I sleep a little, everything will go back to normal,¡± he thought.


    But when he woke up, the first thing he saw was the wall clock, reading 6:47.


    And Keke, sitting beside him, staring at him intently.


    Dan woke up like any other day. The sun shone through the slightly opened curtains¡­

 Dad

    Kevin, the nurse on duty at the hospital, moved through the room with calm precision. His steps were methodical, as if time in that ward did not carry the same urgency as it did elsewhere in the hospital. The dim light of dusk filtered through the small window, and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the air with a mechanical pulse.


    Kevin adjusted the sheets and checked the IV fluids of a patient lying motionless on a gurney. The man had been reduced to the bare essentials by his injuries¡ªno legs, no arms, his body wrapped in bandages as if trying to hold together the remnants of what was once a whole person. His pale, stretched skin contrasted sharply with his eyes. Those eyes said everything¡ªwide, filled with fear and emptiness, as if he were trapped in a nightmare from which he could never wake.


    "You know, Dora would have done anything to brighten your day. She was one of those little girls who always knew how to make anyone smile," Kevin said, his voice carrying a palpable warmth as he adjusted an intravenous line. His tone was relaxed, almost friendly, as if he were speaking to an old friend. "She loved to paint. Sometimes, she would bring me drawings she made at school, full of colors. She used to say the world should be more colorful, happier. She was right, don¡¯t you think?"


    The man on the gurney, his mouth barely visible behind a breathing tube, let out a weak, guttural sound. His eyes remained fixed on Kevin, as if trying to speak, but the horror consuming them seemed to silence any real communication. Kevin, however, appeared indifferent to the terror radiating from those eyes.


    "Dora was only six years old. A beautiful little girl," Kevin continued, reaching into the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a photograph and held it up for the man to see. "Look, this is her. Isn¡¯t she adorable?"


    The photo showed a curly-haired girl with a bright smile that radiated purity and innocence. She wore a small yellow dress and clutched a teddy bear. "She always carried her teddy bear. She called him ''Teddy.'' Said Teddy protected her from everything bad in the world."


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    Kevin carefully tucked the photo away and continued checking the medical supplies, still speaking in that same serene tone. "She loved to dance. In the mornings, while I made breakfast, she would twirl around the kitchen. It didn¡¯t matter if there was music. If there wasn¡¯t any, she would imagine it. The truth is, she never needed much to be happy. The smallest things made her eyes sparkle."


    The man in the bed struggled to move, even just a little. His atrophied muscles refused to respond, and the tubes keeping him alive felt heavier than ever. Tears began to well up at the corners of his eyes as his limbless body remained still, incapable of reacting.


    "You know, her light... went out." Kevin paused, and for the first time, his voice carried a shadow of sadness. "Life is fragile, isn¡¯t it? It only takes a second... one action... to take away something you loved more than anything. But don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ve learned to live with it."


    He leaned in closer to the gurney, locking eyes with the man, gently wiping away a tear that trailed down his sunken face. "You, more than anyone, know what I mean," he whispered with chilling tenderness. "You caused it. You extinguished her light."


    The man¡¯s eyes widened further, desperate, as if he wanted to scream, but his broken body could only manage a strangled gasp. Kevin¡¯s voice remained calm, almost affectionate, as he placed his hands softly over the bandages where the man¡¯s arms used to be.


    "Don¡¯t worry, Dad will take care of you. I always take care of those I love. And you... well, you need care too."


    The nurse slowly began to tighten the bandages, making the man on the gurney whimper in pain.


    "Shh... relax. It doesn¡¯t hurt that much, does it? After everything you did, this is the least of it. You see, justice sometimes takes its time, but it arrives. And I... I will make sure you feel every second of your empty life."


    Kevin smiled, gently caressing the man¡¯s forehead with a disturbing softness. "I don¡¯t want you to think I hate you, you know? After all, you were part of her life, even if only in her last moment. But I want you to understand something¡ªwhat you did will not go unpunished."


    The man squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to disappear, but Kevin remained close.


    "Dora was the light of my life. And you took her away. But don¡¯t worry, Dad will take care of you... always."


    With those final words, Kevin stood up and walked out of the room, leaving the man tied to the bed, surrounded by his own helplessness and the echo of a promise he knew would never end, awaiting an uncertain day in his new life.

 Watching

    Victor sat in the dim light of his room, his only company the glass box resting on his desk: a small ant farm he had set up weeks ago. The closed curtains blocked the daylight, leaving only the desk lamp to faintly illuminate the tiny world of the ants. Every day, upon waking, Victor would go directly to them, as though observing them was a secret ritual that only he understood.


    The ceaseless movement of the tiny creatures mesmerized him. He watched them work in perfect harmony, digging tunnels, transporting minuscule grains of sand, and sharing their food with mathematical precision. He admired how the ants functioned as a single entity, without deviations, without doubts. He wondered if, in their tiny existence, they felt as trapped as he did in that room, repeating the same cycle day after day.


    As the days passed, Victor began noticing patterns. In the colony, there was a robust queen, surrounded by the worker ants who cared for her with devotion. They were expanding the nest, creating new passages and chambers in the darkness of the substrate. Victor noticed how one ant, in particular, stood out from the rest: a larger worker, perhaps stronger, who seemed to lead certain operations. She was persistent, guiding the others through the labyrinths they wove beneath the earth. Victor mentally named her "the commander."


    Day by day, Victor¡¯s routine revolved around that tiny world. He didn''t leave his room, didn''t answer calls. His thoughts were completely immersed in the lives of the ants. And then, one morning, something unusual happened. The commander had deviated from her usual path. She wasn''t working or helping the others; she simply stood in front of the glass, as if watching him.


    Victor leaned forward, perplexed. That ant seemed to be staring at him, her tiny antennae moving rhythmically, as if studying him. A strange sensation crawled up his spine, so unsettling that he turned away abruptly, but there was nothing. Still, the feeling lingered, and he forced himself not to think about it.


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    In the following days, things began to fall apart inside the colony. The workers stopped building and transporting food. The queen, usually still, seemed to move restlessly, searching for something. But the commander stayed there, near the glass, watching. Victor felt her gaze intensify, more penetrating. He told himself it was all in his head, but he couldn''t tear his eyes away from that small figure, now seemingly in control of the environment.


    One night, insomnia consumed him. He couldn¡¯t tear himself away from the ant farm; that strange, suffocating feeling wouldn¡¯t let him breathe. Suddenly, something changed. A crack, tiny, almost imperceptible, appeared in the glass of the farm. Victor rushed forward. "What¡¯s happening?" he whispered, watching as the crack slowly expanded.


    At that moment, the ants began to emerge.


    It started with just a few, but more and more poured out, spreading across the surface of his desk. Victor stepped back, bewildered, watching as the order of the tiny world unraveled before his eyes. Chaos reigned as the ants formed a kind of circle on the desk. And in the center of that circle, the commander.


    An ordinary ant should not behave like this.


    Without warning, a muffled crash echoed through the room. The crack in the glass grew, and suddenly, the very walls of the room began to tremble. Victor clutched the edge of the desk, feeling the ground beneath his feet disappear. The ants had stopped moving; now they stood still, watching him from every angle.


    And then, the entire room shattered.


    The floor, the walls, even the air around Victor tore apart like fragile layers of paper. Everything crumbled. What was once his room now revealed itself to be a giant glass box, a vast ant farm. And Victor, terrified, realized he too was being watched.

 Art

    The day begins with the soft sound of an alarm clock. Martina stretches in bed with a peaceful smile, reaching her arms toward the ceiling as if embracing the dawn. The faint glow of the sun filters through the curtains, bathing her room in a comforting warmth. Jumping out of bed with energy, she walks barefoot across the wooden floor to the bathroom.


    Her morning routine is a ritual she has perfected over the years: brushing her teeth, washing her face, tying her hair into a high bun. Every movement is fluid, almost mechanical, yet filled with an inexplicable joy. She hums a soft melody as she steps onto the small balcony, watering her plants and speaking to each one as if they were lifelong friends.


    Afterward, she returns inside and walks to the calendar hanging on the wall. Taking a red marker, she draws a thick line over the previous day with a smile. Another day crossed off, out of ninety. Everything is in order.


    The kitchen awaits. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, wrapping the house in a familiar sense of calm. Martina places two croissants on a plate and sits by her window, watching the clear blue sky, devoid of clouds. Every morning follows this same sequence, in perfect balance, as if time and space were constants, immutable.


    However, something in the silence of this morning feels... different. It is as if the world around her is too still, too contained. But Martina does not dwell on it. She takes out her sketchbook and begins to draw the sky, her brush gliding naturally over the paper, tracing the lines of a serene day.


    Suddenly, a dull, distant sound breaks the air. Something collides against her door, and for a moment, Martina frowns. Then she sighs, unbothered. She rises slowly, as if she had forgotten something, and walks to one of the dining room walls, where a shotgun rests. She takes it with an unusual tranquility, walking toward the front entrance, where she places two additional planks over the door, securing them with nails that seem to be ready for moments like this.


    The windows are reinforced with metal, and the hallway leading to the dining room is filled with barricades, leaving barely enough space to move. From behind the thick curtains, the distant sound of groaning echoes in the air. She remains unfazed. Returning to her chair, she takes a sip of coffee and looks at her drawing once more.


    The hordes outside seem endless, but her gaze stays fixed on the artwork before her. In the distance, the dragging footsteps of zombies surround the house. The sky she paints in her sketchbook is bright, blue, full of hope, in stark contrast to the darkness reigning beyond her improvised fortress, stocked with ample food and a large water supply.


    Martina takes a deep breath, inhales the aroma of coffee, and smiles to herself. The chaos outside feels distant, irrelevant. She keeps painting, feeling how each brushstroke connects her to something greater, something more beautiful.


    She looks at her work with satisfaction, sets the brush aside, and, with her eyes closed, inhales the fresh air seeping through one of the few unblocked cracks in the window.


    "Good morning," she whispers, before taking another sip of coffee, ignoring the insistent knocking of the undead on the other side of the door.


    The zombies¡¯ breathing is a distant roar, a chilling whisper slipping through the cracks of her fortress, as if the outside world refused to let her forget how close she is to death.


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    Outside, the landscape is desolate. The streets are littered with debris, overturned cars, shattered glass, and lifeless bodies that were once human. The walls of nearby buildings are stained with dried blood, and the air reeks of decay, of rotting flesh under the scorching sun. The hordes of zombies shuffle clumsily, their dragging footsteps leaving deep imprints in the accumulated dust. Some have intact bodies, while others, grotesquely mutilated, move as if unaware of pain or time. Their deformed faces turn in unison at any sound, as if the echo of a past life still pulled them toward what was once human.


    The pounding of the zombies against her house is relentless, but her home, her refuge, has withstood it all. Wooden planks cross every window, reinforced with thick nails, and behind the front door, multiple locks and chains ensure that, at least for now, her small stronghold remains intact. In the corners of the ceiling, small homemade traps hang, ready to launch nails and blades in the event of a massive attack.


    The noise intensifies. A heavier thud resonates against the front door, as if something larger, heavier, is trying to break through. Martina does not react with terror or anxiety. Instead, her breathing slows even more. She gently caresses the rim of her coffee cup, taking a small sip and savoring the bitter warmth that reminds her she is still alive.


    She looks at her sketchbook, the drawing of the sky nearly finished, and smiles. The contrast between what she is putting on paper and the reality surrounding her is so brutal that it feels almost poetic. The sky she paints has no dark clouds or dense smoke covering the horizon outside. In her art, the sky is clear, serene, bright, like the one she remembers from before everything fell apart. An impossible sky.


    Suddenly, a loud creak makes her lift her gaze. One of the zombies has managed to climb onto the roof of a car and is frantically hitting a second-floor window. Its broken, bloodied nails scrape against the glass, desperately trying to break through. Others, seeing it, gather, pressing against the house¡¯s facade.


    "AHHHHHH!" a scream erupts from the street¡ªthe cry of some poor soul. His barricades did not hold. He stumbles out, his arm injured, wielding a metal crowbar.


    Martina looks at him but decides to ignore him. He pleads for help, his screams shattering the peace of her brushstrokes, making her paint something she did not intend. Martina sighs and puts on her headphones, humming along to her music as she corrects the mistake on her canvas.


    The man¡¯s voice fades from screaming for help, but the silence comes too late. He is surrounded from all sides. Slowly, the dead close in. He tries to flee, but it is in vain. The undead begin their feast on his flesh, and within seconds, he is torn apart.


    If there is one thing we have learned, it is this: if Martina ever asks you for help, do not ignore her, nor threaten to throw her out onto the streets.


    The collective roar amplifies. Desperation seeps into the groans of the dead. But Martina, with an almost inhuman calm, sets her brush down on the table. Blue paint stains have splattered onto her fingers, and she observes them with mild curiosity before wiping them off on a cloth.


    The air that seeps through the small crack in the window carries a rancid smell, a mix of decay and old blood, yet to her, it is fresh. It is the only thing left of the world she once knew, a lingering memory of what normal used to be. In her mind, that air still carries the breeze of an open field, the scent of flowers that no longer exist, the laughter and voices of cities now silenced¡ªnothing remains but death and chaos.


    The dead struggle to break in, but they cannot. The door is too much for them. It is sturdy and well-reinforced; their weak and sometimes powerful blows fail to even budge it, only making noise¡ªan annoyance to Martina, but nothing that music cannot fix.


    The horde outside will not disappear; she knows this. But neither will her inspiration. Every brushstroke, every sip of coffee, is a reminder that despite the terror and horror surrounding her, she still owns her own world. A world where the sky is blue, where life remains beautiful, even if only on her canvases.


    "I''m inspired; it''s a perfect day to paint," she says with a faint smile, loading her shotgun and beginning her art.


    Truly, it is a good day outside.

 Friend

    The air was dense and cold, as if the darkness itself were alive. As she opened her eyes, a young woman found herself in what appeared to be a cavern. The walls were covered in restless shadows, and the only sound she could hear was a distant echo, like a lament lost in time. She tried to remember how she had ended up there, but her mind was blank, trapped in a labyrinth of confusion and fear.


    As she pushed herself up, a piercing scream shattered the silence, cutting through the gloom like a sharp knife. It was a scream of pain¡ªraw, filled with desperation. Her heart stopped for a moment, and terror seized her. Following the sound, she moved forward hesitantly, her pulse quickening with each step.


    What she saw made her tremble. In the center of the dark chamber, a man dressed in bloodstained clothes was hunched over a figure tied to the ground. It was her father. The madman held a gleaming knife in his hand, slowly slicing into her father¡¯s flesh, savoring every moment. His victim screamed, pleading for mercy, but each word was ignored by the monster, who laughed maniacally.


    "No, no, please, stop!"


    The young woman screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to rush forward¡ªonly to realize she was caged, bound hand and foot, unable to do anything, unable to look away from the horror unfolding before her.


    The madman paused for a moment, turning his head toward her, his deranged eyes gleaming with amusement.


    "Amateurs," he muttered, chuckling as if commenting on a game. His grin was twisted, his teeth sharp as knives. Then, with chilling indifference, he turned back to her father and continued his gruesome task.


    The young woman¡¯s heart shattered. She screamed with all her might, calling out to the man who had loved her, who had protected her.


    ¡°Dad, don¡¯t go! Don¡¯t leave me, please!¡±


    But her words were nothing more than echoes in a place where reason had been stripped away, leaving only madness to reign supreme.


    ¡°You¡¯re all amateurs!¡± she shouted at the man carving into her father, mocking him.


    How could something so macabre happen?


    Let¡¯s start from the beginning.


    Vitor had always been different. He had known it for as long as he could remember. To him, humanity was nothing more than a parade of mediocrity. Emotions, social norms, human relationships¡ªall seemed absurdly trivial. His cold, calculating mind couldn¡¯t help but see others as mere pieces on a board, moving without reason, without significance.


    And yet, in Erick, he had found something strange, something different. Despite the condescension with which he treated everyone else, Erick had been the only one who looked at him without disgust or fear. He had decided to be his friend, and though Vitor didn¡¯t experience friendship in the traditional sense, he valued the companionship.


    They were sitting in the park. Erick spoke enthusiastically about a movie he had just seen. Vitor barely paid attention, nodding at the right moments. Suddenly, Erick nudged his arm, laughing.


    ¡°You¡¯re not listening to me, Vitor!¡±


    ¡°Of course I am,¡± Vitor replied, his smile forced but convincing.


    Erick knew him well enough to tell he wasn¡¯t really listening, but he didn¡¯t mind. He knew Vitor had no interest in such things, but the fact that he even tried to pretend made him happy. He patted Vitor¡¯s shoulder and grinned.


    ¡°You¡¯re a case, my friend.¡±


    Deep down, Vitor thought: I tolerate your presence, you play my game... but you¡¯ll never truly understand how different I am. And yet, here we are, pretending to care about human trivialities.


    One day, Erick shared big news: he had a girlfriend. Her name was Rita, and he spoke about her with a genuine happiness that Vitor could neither comprehend nor replicate, though he feigned enthusiasm.


    "Rita is amazing, Vitor. You have to meet her."


    "I''m happy for you," Vitor lied, forcing a smile.


    Erick laughed, clapping him on the back.


    "I know you don¡¯t actually care, but thanks for pretending. It means a lot."


    Vitor looked at his friend with a mix of indifference and something akin to respect. Erick understood his nature, knew that his "happiness" didn¡¯t matter to him, yet they both continued the charade. And that, in itself, was fascinating.


    Rita was charming, kind¡ªbut Vitor never bought into her act. From the very beginning, he noticed the details: the subtle tension in her smile, the way she avoided certain questions. As a natural predator, Vitor had an uncanny ability to spot others like him. He said nothing but began watching her more closely.


    He had always been an astute observer. Though he found emotions and relationships absurd, his sharp perception allowed him to detect cracks in people¡¯s fa?ades. From the moment Erick introduced him to Rita, something about her didn¡¯t sit right. Her smile was too perfect, her gestures too calculated. Vitor didn¡¯t believe in hunches, but his psychopathic instincts urged him to pay attention to the details others overlooked. And Rita¡­ had too many inconsistencies.


    Erick, however, was blinded by love. Vitor watched him talk about his relationship with genuine joy, and though he pretended to listen, he was really analyzing every word Erick said about her, searching for any sign of danger.


    The fa?ade lasted six months¡ªsix months that Vitor never believed in. But Erick? He was just a fool who needed a real lesson. Or at least, that¡¯s how Vitor saw it.


    When the illusion finally crumbled, Vitor wasn¡¯t surprised. He had been watching, studying, waiting. And when he started following Rita, it didn¡¯t take long for him to uncover her true nature.


    Rita belonged to a criminal syndicate that kidnapped young people, demanded outrageous ransoms, and killed their victims without hesitation. Vitor had overheard a conversation between Rita and her brother¡ªafter all, he had planted cameras and microphones in her house the very first day they met. The first thing he did was find out where she lived.


    They were planning to use Erick as their next pawn.


    What they didn¡¯t know was that they were playing with the wrong prey.


    The kidnapping was set for a week later, at two in the morning, on Vanegas Street.


    And when that day arrived, Vitor was ready.


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    That afternoon, hours before Erick¡¯s highly anticipated date with Rita, Vitor paid him a visit. Erick was excited, practically glowing with joy, an idiotic grin on his face.


    "Today¡¯s the day, Vitor! I¡¯m having dinner with Rita, and I think this is serious, man." Erick¡¯s voice was full of eager anticipation as he got ready to leave. "I¡¯m sure she¡¯s the one."


    Vitor, forcing a smile, simply nodded. To his eyes, Erick was almost pathetic, completely oblivious to the darkness lurking just beneath the surface. He knew his friend had no idea what was really happening.


    And then, Erick made a mistake¡ªa small detail that confirmed what Vitor already knew.


    ¡°We¡¯re meeting somewhere new, near Vanegas Avenue,¡± Erick said casually, not realizing the significance of his words.


    Yes. That street. The one infamous for its lack of lighting, its dangerous reputation. A place where even the bravest wouldn¡¯t walk alone at night.


    Erick, unaware of Vitor''s growing tension, pulled a couple of beers from the fridge.


    "This will calm our nerves before the date, don¡¯t you think?" he said, handing a bottle to his friend.


    Vitor accepted it but didn¡¯t drink. He pretended to take a sip and watched as Erick drank his without a second thought. Minutes later, Erick began to sway, his words slurring until, finally, he collapsed unconscious onto the couch.


    Vitor observed his friend''s motionless body for a moment. He knew Erick wouldn¡¯t survive what Rita and her family had planned. But to him, this situation was perfect¡ªan opportunity he had no intention of wasting.


    With absolute calm, he dragged Erick¡¯s body to the bed, making sure he was properly settled. Then, he walked to the closet, searching for clothes identical to those his friend would have worn for the date. He knew exactly what to choose, down to the smallest detail¡ªproof of how much time he had spent observing Erick. Not out of affection, but out of pure calculation.


    Dressed as Erick, Vitor made his way to the meeting point on Vanegas Avenue. It hadn¡¯t been long before he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head, and everything went black.


    He woke up tied to a chair in a dark, cold place. He could hear voices around him¡ªhis captors whispering among themselves, celebrating their success in capturing ¡°Erick.¡± But what they didn¡¯t know was that Vitor wasn¡¯t the victim they expected. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he felt an unusual exhilaration. He was in the heart of the trap, but he was not the prey¡ªhe was the predator.


    ¡°Wake him up,¡± ordered a voice Vitor recognized. It was Rita¡¯s father.


    One of the kidnappers threw a bucket of cold water over his face, jolting him fully awake. As they pulled the hood from his head, the lights flickered on, revealing the figures of Rita¡¯s family¡ªher father, her mother, and four of her brothers. They were all there, surrounding him, confident that they had caught their target.


    But when they looked at him closely, something was off. He wasn¡¯t Erick.


    Vitor smiled¡ªa wide, macabre grin that made them all take a step back.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Rita¡¯s father asked, his brow furrowed.


    ¡°Did you really think it would be that easy?¡± Vitor let out a laugh, his voice echoing through the cold, dark space. ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting for this.¡±


    The kidnappers exchanged uneasy glances, confusion creeping in. One of Rita¡¯s brothers stepped forward, ready to silence Vitor with a punch. But by then, Vitor had already begun freeing himself. He knew how to handle extreme situations, and his skill in untying knots and slipping out of restraints was just one of the many talents he had honed over the years.


    Vitor lunged forward, regurgitating a small glass vial wrapped in plastic. He smashed it against the floor, releasing an overpowering scent that caused everyone to collapse unconscious¡ªeveryone except Vitor.


    ¡°Now,¡± he muttered, surveying the fallen bodies around him, ¡°how shall I deal with you, you pathetic amateurs?¡±


    The air was thick and cold, as if the darkness itself were alive. When Rita opened her eyes, she found herself in a place that resembled a cavern. The walls were covered in restless shadows, and the only sound was a distant echo, like a lost lament drifting through time.


    She tried to remember how she had gotten there, but her mind was blank, trapped in a maze of confusion and fear.


    As she slowly sat up, a bloodcurdling scream tore through the air, cutting through the darkness like a sharpened blade. It was a cry of agony¡ªraw, filled with desperation. Her heart stopped for a moment, and terror gripped her.


    Following the sound, she moved hesitantly, her pulse quickening with every step.


    What she saw made her tremble.


    In the center of the dark chamber, a man dressed in bloodstained clothes loomed over a bound figure. It was her father. The madman held a gleaming knife in his hand, slicing into her father¡¯s flesh with slow, deliberate precision, savoring every moment. His victim screamed, begging for mercy, but every plea was ignored.


    ¡°No, no, please stop!¡±


    Rita¡¯s scream of anguish broke through the suffocating silence. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to move closer¡ªonly to realize she was inside a cage, her hands and feet bound. She was powerless, unable to do anything, unable to look away from the horror unfolding before her.


    The madman paused for a moment, turning his head toward her. His eyes were wild, alight with manic glee.


    ¡°Amateurs,¡± he scoffed, laughing as if he were commenting on a trivial game. His smile twisted into a grotesque grin, his teeth glinting like sharpened knives. Then, with chilling indifference, he turned back to her father and resumed his grisly work.


    Rita¡¯s heart shattered. She screamed with everything she had, calling out to the man who had loved her, who had protected her.


    ¡°Dad, don¡¯t go! Please, don¡¯t leave me!¡±


    But her words were nothing more than echoes in a place where reason had been stripped away, and madness reigned supreme.


    ¡°You¡¯re all nothing but amateurs!¡± she shrieked at the monster who was cutting into her father, her voice dripping with hatred and despair.


    Within minutes, Vitor¡¯s laughter mixed with the agonized screams of Rita¡¯s family. One by one, he slaughtered them without mercy, savoring every moment, every drop of blood, every cry of agony. There was no fear in him¡ªonly a twisted pleasure that consumed him as he tore them apart using anything he could get his hands on: knives, ropes, his own bare hands.


    For five days, he tortured them. He took his time, ensuring that each of them suffered enough before they finally died. The screams filled the house, but they were far enough from the city that no one could hear them.


    And through it all, he never stopped laughing. His laughter was the only constant¡ªa sinister echo that reverberated through the dark halls of the house. He never seemed to tire, sleeping soundly like a child whenever they begged for mercy or hurled curses at him.


    Rita, the only one left alive, was forced to watch as Vitor destroyed her family¡ªone by one.


    He never touched her, never laid a hand on her.


    Her punishment was to witness it all, powerless to stop it.


    When he had finished his fun, he placed the heads of her family on the table and began to play with them, even putting makeup on them with whatever he could find at hand.


    Then he approached Rita. She was mentally shattered, filthy but neither malnourished nor dehydrated¡ªhe had made sure to feed her during the five beautiful days they had spent together. And finally, he placed the severed heads at the doors of her cage.


    "I''m going to be honest with you. That was fun. We should do it again."


    He pulled out the key to the cage and shoved it deep into the gaping wound of her late mother¡¯s head, burying his hand almost entirely inside.


    "I called the police. They''ll be here in a few hours. So, you can stay here and face all the atrocities you''ve committed¡ªbecause they are yours, you didn¡¯t invite me, after all. Or, you can take the key and spend your days as a fugitive."


    Then, without another word, he turned around and left, whistling cheerfully.


    For five days, Erick had been desperate, having had no news of Vitor. The morning after waking up in Vitor''s bed, he learned from the news that the one responsible for the fifteen disappearances was his own girlfriend. In the following days, he had been trying to find Vitor, even reaching out to Vitor¡¯s older sister, Lisa Herrero. However, she simply told him that Vitor knew how to take care of himself and that he would return.


    Fearing the worst, Erick went to Vitor¡¯s apartment once again¡ªonly to find him sitting calmly on his couch, freshly showered, playing with a Rubik¡¯s cube.


    "Vitor!" Erick shouted, running toward him and wrapping him in a tight hug.


    Vitor let out an exasperated sigh, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.


    "You won¡¯t believe it. My girlfriend..."


    "She tried to kill you."


    "Yeah."


    Erick hugged him again.


    "God, I thought she had kidnapped you."


    "Right, hahaha."


    That night, Vitor was grilling in his backyard while Erick prepared the salad. When Erick glanced at the TV, he saw his girlfriend being arrested. Her eyes looked empty, her expression utterly broken.


    "Vitor! Look who''s on TV!"


    "I can¡¯t! I¡¯m cooking!"


    "It¡¯s Rita. She¡¯s on the news."


    Vitor put down his utensils and walked over to the television.


    "Look at her. Looks like her luck finally ran out. Almost seems like she¡¯s that way because they caught her. But what really catches my attention is that they¡¯re saying her accomplices were brutally murdered."


    "Yeah, there are some real savages out there." Erick sighed. "Black pudding or chorizo?"


    "The question offends me, Vitor Herrera."


    "Then, black pudding."


    "Two, please."


    "The things I do for you, idiot," Vitor muttered as he made his way to the kitchen.

 Chessboard

    On the chessboard, each piece moves with precision under the invisible hands of a player. Every move is calculated, every destiny seems predetermined. But for a pawn named Eco, the game is not just a game¡ªit¡¯s a reflection of life itself, a stage where the larger pieces seem to have all the control, and he, a mere small and expendable piece, struggles with an existential dilemma.


    Eco, the pawn, always found himself on the front lines of battle. Though small and with limited movements, within his mind churned a deep reflection. What is the purpose of my existence? he wondered. If I¡¯m only sacrificed for the good of others, do I have any value for myself?


    His friend Cabri¨®n, the knight, was the complete opposite. He hopped from square to square, always out of place, distracted by anything that caught his attention. Sometimes he couldn¡¯t remember if they were in the middle of a game or if it was just a leisurely stroll. Though Eco liked Cabri¨®n, his constant distraction was frustrating.


    ¡°Cabri¨®n, have you ever wondered why we¡¯re here?¡± Eco asked one day as the knight shook himself off, as if trying to rid himself of some bothersome thought.


    ¡°Here? Where? Oh, right, the board. Well... I don¡¯t know. Look! A rook in check!¡± Cabri¨®n replied, charging into the battle carelessly, completely ignoring the philosophical question.


    Eco sighed. His friend, the knight, never understood him, and the other pawns didn¡¯t seem interested in deep matters either. We¡¯re just pawns, they said. Our fate is to advance, be sacrificed, or, if lucky, reach the end of the board. But Eco didn¡¯t want to be just a pawn marching on without questioning anything. He desired more.


    In the shadows of the board, the Queen watched. She was the most powerful of all the pieces, able to move in any direction, any distance. The others respected her, but few knew that her gaze wasn¡¯t on the kings or rooks¡ªit was on the pawn who advanced slowly but with purpose. She was in love with Eco.


    One night, after a long battle, the Queen approached him while everyone else slept in their squares.


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    ¡°Why do you look so down, Eco?¡± asked the Queen, her voice soft, radiating both power and tenderness.


    Eco looked up, surprised that the Queen had noticed him.


    ¡°I feel trapped in a life that seems to have one purpose, but... I don¡¯t know if that purpose is mine. I just move forward because it¡¯s what¡¯s expected of me, but no one asks me what I want, or who I truly am.¡±


    The Queen smiled with compassion.


    ¡°Many don¡¯t dare to ask those questions, Eco. Most follow the path laid out for them without thinking. But you, a mere pawn, have awakened something that even the greatest pieces fail to understand.¡±


    ¡°And what do I do with that?¡± Eco asked, raising his voice in frustration. ¡°I¡¯m just a pawn! No one hears my thoughts, my questions are ignored, and my fate is already decided.¡±


    The Queen leaned closer, gently touching the square they shared.


    ¡°Don¡¯t underestimate your importance. A pawn has the power to change the game, to challenge fate. If you reach the other side, you¡¯ll transform into whatever you choose to be. You can be a rook, a bishop, or even a queen. But before you reach that moment, you must believe that your existence has more meaning than they¡¯ve told you.¡±


    The Queen¡¯s words sparked a flame in Eco, but they also filled him with doubt. If he had the power to choose his future, what would he choose to be? Should he follow the desires of others, or forge his own path? The dilemma weighed on him.


    The game continued, the pieces moved, but Eco was no longer the same. Each step he took toward the front brought him closer to a definitive decision. Meanwhile, Cabri¨®n continued jumping across the board, unaware of his friend¡¯s deeper concerns. Sometimes he made Eco laugh with his naivety, and other times, he frustrated him with his inability to see beyond the next jump.


    At the end of the game, Eco reached the last row. The players awaited his transformation, and the Queen watched from a distance, her heart racing for the pawn who had come so far.


    ¡°What will you be now, Eco?¡± the Queen whispered.


    Eco, after much reflection, understood that it wasn¡¯t about what others expected of him. He didn¡¯t want to be a rook, a bishop, or even a queen. He wanted to remain what he had always been, but with one difference: now he knew that, even as a pawn, he had the power to change the course of the game.


    And so, in a move that defied all logic, Eco chose to remain a pawn, advancing with the determination of one who knows that his value does not lie in his size or his movements, but in his ability to think and decide.


    The Queen smiled with pride, understanding that in that choice, Eco had proven to be freer than any other piece on the board.

 Dana

    Elliot walked silently through the forest, a bag filled with empty jars hanging from his belt. The air was fresh, almost icy, typical of those autumn nights. He knew that the vampire who lived in the old mansion on the outskirts needed her nourishment. He had volunteered, not out of devotion, but from a strange mix of fear and fascination. His task was simple: gather blood from animals. He couldn¡¯t imagine what would happen if she had to feed on something... or someone else.


    Every night, Elliot returned with jars full of fresh blood, enough to keep her sated without the need to hunt humans. It had been nearly a year since he met the vampire, who never spoke to him¡ªonly taking what he brought and retreating into the shadows. He had never seen her face completely, always hidden in a shroud of darkness. But he knew, at some point in her life, she had been human.


    The process of gathering blood had become mechanical for him. He spent hours in the forest, trapping small creatures, draining them skillfully and without emotion, then returning to the mansion. It was a routine that, though macabre, no longer disturbed him.


    That night, Elliot was back on his usual path, the full moon illuminating the sky. The branches cracked under his boots, and the jars of blood clinked in the bag. Everything seemed peaceful until, suddenly, three figures emerged from the trees.


    ¡°Well, well! What do we have here?¡± said the leader of the group, a man with a cruel face and scars crossing his cheek. ¡°You seem to be carrying something interesting.¡±


    The other two quickly surrounded him, while Elliot tried to remain calm. One of them grabbed the bag, examining the jars with mockery.


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    ¡°Blood? What kind of crazy person carries this around?¡± said one of the lackeys, dumping a jar onto the ground with disdain.


    ¡°You¡¯d better hand over everything you have,¡± the leader added, pulling out a knife.


    Elliot wasn¡¯t a fighter. He tried to step back, but soon realized there was no escape. He prepared for the worst, helpless to defend himself. The feeling of powerlessness washed over him, his body trembling with fear. The men began to advance, but before they could harm him, a shadow rushed past them.


    Out of nowhere, she appeared.


    The vampire, his silent protector, had arrived. She moved with an unnatural grace, her eyes glowing like embers in the darkness. Before the men could react, she had already dealt with the first one, his neck snapped in an instant. The second tried to flee, but she was faster. In the blink of an eye, his body hit the ground, lifeless. The third, the leader, tried to defend himself with the knife, but it was futile. With a precise strike, she immobilized him and let him fall, dead.


    It all happened in seconds, a lethal dance under the moonlight.


    Elliot stood frozen, shocked by the surprise and horror. He had never seen the vampire fight, let alone like this. It was like witnessing a force of nature unleashed. When the last of the thugs fell, she turned to him. For the first time, their eyes met.


    ¡°Thank you¡­¡± she said, her voice soft, cracked with effort. ¡°My name is¡­ Dana.¡±


    Before Elliot could say anything, Dana collapsed into his arms, her body fragile, yet still powerful. Her skin was as cold as ice, and she seemed to have exhausted all her strength protecting him.


    Carefully, Elliot lifted her, surprised by how light she was. Despite her fierce appearance, there was something profoundly human about her in that moment. Without hesitation, he began walking back to the mansion, carrying the vampire who had saved him.


    The night had changed forever. As the wind blew through the trees and the shadows stretched long, Elliot realized that his relationship with Dana had evolved. He was no longer just a blood collector. Something more had been born between them, a bond that went beyond need. A connection forged in the darkness, where he didn¡¯t just care for her, but now she would protect him as well.

 Watcher

    In a small town where the shadows stretched long at dusk, Ron lived a peaceful and solitary life. He was a quiet and well-mannered young man, a lover of books who spent hours immersed in the worlds of novels that carried him far from his daily routine. His room was filled with books, each holding a piece of his soul within its pages. However, there was one thing in his life he could not escape¡ªan immense eye that watched him from the sky.


    The eye was an anomaly in the heavens, so vast it could see beyond what any human could imagine. Its iris was an intense shade of green, surrounded by a brilliant white that seemed to glow with a light of its own. At first glance, its presence was terrifying, as if it scrutinized every corner of the world, observing every passerby, every secret hidden in the shadows. Most of the town''s inhabitants lived with a constant sense of unease, a knot in their stomachs that followed them wherever they went.


    Despite the general discomfort, Ron did not share their apprehension. From the first day he saw it, he felt drawn to the magnitude of that eye. While his neighbors averted their gazes, he watched it with fascination. He wondered what thoughts lay hidden behind its gaze and whether, in some way, the eye also knew about his love for books and the worlds he explored. While others locked themselves inside at nightfall, he remained in his garden, a book in hand, lost in his stories as the eye watched him from above.


    Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Ron continued his life, enjoying his routine. He woke early to go to work, spending hours in the town library, surrounded by books and the soft rustling of turning pages. People often whispered about the eye, speaking in hushed tones about its ominous presence. However, for Ron, it was a constant reminder that the world was far bigger than people believed.


    One night, after a long day at work, Ron left the library with a tired mind but a light spirit. The moon lit his path as he walked through the empty streets. The eye was there once again, gazing at him with the same curiosity he had felt for it all these years. This time, however, the eye was closed, as if it had decided to rest from the world.


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    ¡°Sleep well, my friend. Looks like you¡¯re tired too,¡± Ron murmured with a smile, feeling connected in some way to that celestial presence.


    He continued on his way home, the night wrapping him in a mantle of calm. Once inside, he shed the fatigue of the day and settled into bed. The softness of the sheets and the whisper of the wind outside lulled him to sleep.


    ¡°Good¡­ tomorrow is Saturday,¡± he said, closing his eyes, a peaceful sensation enveloping him. The eye remained in his mind, a silent guardian of his dreams.


    The eye in the sky had become an inseparable part of the town¡¯s life. Some called it ¡°the Watcher,¡± while others referred to it as ¡°the Eye of the Night.¡± During the day, its presence was overwhelming; its omniscient gaze fell upon everyone, laying bare their secrets and deepest fears. Conversations in the streets revolved around it¡ªnervous whispers exchanged in the dim corners of caf¨¦s or within the privacy of homes. Many felt their lives were marked by anxiety, forever under the relentless observation of that celestial entity.


    For most, the night brought a temporary relief. When the sun dipped below the horizon, the eye would slowly close, as if sinking into a deep slumber. It was then that the town could breathe again. Laughter and chatter resumed, and the shadows seemed less menacing. People gathered in the plazas, exchanging stories and sharing moments that the eye, with its unyielding presence, had stolen from them during the day.


    Yet, for those who feared the eye, its closing was merely a brief respite. They knew that at dawn, it would open once more, and with it, fear would creep back into their hearts. Legends about the eye spread¡ªsome said it was an ancient god who had chosen to watch over humanity, while others believed it was a punishment for the world¡¯s sins.


    But for Ron, the eye was something else. It was a reminder of the wonder of the universe, a symbol of the unknown that had always fascinated him. While others feared what the eye might see, he found comfort in it. His curiosity was greater than his fear, and with each glance at the sky, he saw the promise of stories waiting to be discovered¡ªnot only in books but also in life itself.


    And so, the town carried on with its routine, the Watcher looming above, and Ron, always at peace, ready to face another day under its gaze, aware that the true wonder lay in the connection they all shared with that immense eye watching from the infinite.


    ¡°Hey, friend! Have a great day!¡± Ron greeted the sky.


    The eye looked at him and blinked once.


    Ron laughed.


    ¡°Oh? Yes? Yes what?¡±

 Room

    Carlos awoke in a room without end. Everything was white¡ªthe cold, polished floor, the walls that seemed to stretch infinitely upward. There were no windows, no doors, no visible exit. The white light, coming from no discernible source, illuminated everything around him, bathing him in an unwavering brightness. A hard bed, covered by a hospital sheet, and a small bathroom in one corner were his only companions.


    The first few minutes passed in confusion. He thought it must have been an accident, that someone would find him soon, that he would hear a sound¡ªanything to indicate the presence of others. But the silence was absolute, profound. The stillness, unbroken. He moved toward the walls, searching for an edge, a crack, something that might suggest a way out, but his hands found only an endless, smooth surface, returning nothing but an implacable cold.


    Hours stretched into eternity. His mind began to fracture under the weight of the void. He thought of his life, his family, all the moments that might be lost in this prison. He sat on the bed, then lay down, trying to steady his breathing, but his thoughts spiraled out of control. He started whispering aloud, his own voice echoing endlessly in the empty space.


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    Time lost meaning. He slept only when exhaustion claimed him, but every awakening was the same as the last¡ªsame position, same silence. The thought that he might never leave lodged itself deep in his chest, a dagger turning slowly, reminding him that he was trapped in an infinite cell. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he began scratching at the walls, screaming until his voice broke into a hoarse lament.


    One night¡ªif the concept of night still held any meaning¡ªhe felt a presence, a shift in the air. He looked around, but the room remained unchanged. Yet something inside him shattered. He could no longer endure the thought of this eternal whiteness, of this place without time, without purpose. In desperation, he struck the bed, the floor¡ªanything to prove that he was still alive, that his senses hadn¡¯t abandoned him. His throat burned, and exhaustion brought him to his knees.


    And then, out of nowhere, everything vanished.


    He woke to the tight embrace of a straitjacket and the distant murmur of voices. When he opened his eyes, he was in a different bed, inside a psychiatric hospital cell. Doctors and nurses observed him with concern. He tried to move, to speak, but his body was weak. In frantic whispers, he spoke of the white room, the endless walls, the echo of his own voice.


    The doctors tried to calm him, but for Carlos, the white room was still there, burned into his mind.

 Candle

    It was a small, ancient candle, made of dark wax, with a wick that barely stood upright. The owner of the candle, an old man who lived alone in a cabin deep in the forest, always warned:


    "This candle must never go out, no matter what. If its flame is extinguished, you won''t be able to stop what comes next."


    One night, Elena, a young woman from the nearby village, heard stories about the old man¡¯s mysterious candle and decided to visit his cabin. When she arrived, she found him sitting in his chair beside the candle, staring at it with a seriousness that sent chills down her spine.


    "What¡¯s so special about that candle?" Elena asked, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.


    The old man looked at her with a mix of fear and warning.


    "This candle is the only thing keeping a presence at bay... something that should never have been called upon. If its light goes out, that thing will be released."


    Elena, skeptical, thought the old man was just trying to scare her with ghost stories. But the fear in his eyes made her hesitate. Even so, when she offered to watch over the candle so he could rest, he accepted with visible relief. Before retreating to his room, he gave her one final warning:


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    "No matter what happens, do not let the candle go out."


    Elena sat beside the candle, intrigued but still doubtful. Hours passed, and the warmth of the tiny flame kept her company, soothing her. But near midnight, a freezing wind began to seep through the cabin walls, making the candle¡¯s flame flicker.


    Worried, Elena cupped her hands around it, trying to shield it from the wind, but the flame grew weaker.


    The air around her started to smell of damp earth and decay, as if something was emerging from the shadows. Then, she heard a whisper¡ªsoft at first, but growing louder, like a dark, guttural chant echoing from the corners of the cabin. A presence loomed closer, a shifting shadow creeping just beyond her vision.


    Finally, the candle¡¯s flame flickered one last time and went out.


    Elena was swallowed by absolute darkness, barely breathing, when an icy hand settled on her shoulder.


    A chilling whisper reached her ear, like an ancient, desperate lament.


    "Thank you for freeing me..." the voice murmured, filled with an unfathomable hatred.


    Elena tried to scream, but no sound left her throat. A thick, dark shadow coiled around her, and as she struggled, she realized the cabin was filling with an unbearable cold, as if all warmth had been devoured by an endless abyss.


    From his room, the old man listened helplessly to Elena¡¯s screams as the shadow dragged her away to an unknown place.


    By morning, the cabin was empty.


    But on the table, the candle had reignited, its flame burning softly, waiting for its next victim¡ª


    as if nothing had ever happened.

 Song

    (Verse 1)


    Listen, listen, there''s something in the wall,


    a whisper so frozen, you can''t see at all.


    They''re calling, they''re calling, but you don¡¯t know who,


    close your eyes now, there''s nothing to do.


    (Chorus)


    The voice that you should never hear,


    it''s under your skin, it crawls so near.


    A hollow echo, a breath unseen,


    it holds you tight but stays between.


    (Verse 2)


    The floor is cracking, but you never fall,


    the shadows stretch, yet stand so tall.


    They whisper your name in a smoldering breath,


    but you don¡¯t listen, you shatter instead.


    (Chorus)


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    The voice that you should never hear,


    it''s under your skin, it crawls so near.


    A hollow echo, a breath unseen,


    it holds you tight but stays between.


    (Bridge)


    Look, look, the grin in the shade,


    a scar that lingers, will never fade.


    Was it a dream? No, I can''t say,


    but hands keep moving where none should stray.


    (Chorus)


    The voice that you should never hear,


    it''s under your skin, it crawls so near.


    A hollow echo, a breath unseen,


    it holds you tight but stays between.


    (Finale)


    And if you turn back... I won¡¯t be there,


    but something inside will always stare.


    A whisper, a shiver, a silent cry,


    you''ll never know how, but it won¡¯t say goodbye.


    Sing with me and heed my call,


    again and again, and again through all.


    What do you think? Do you want to sing with me again and again, until the darkness holds you tight? Don''t worry, we¡¯ll have such a lovely time.

 Mirror

    The rain fell steadily on the asphalt, creating puddles that reflected the glow of the streetlights. Ian walked down the street with his head lowered, trying not to get any more soaked than he already was. His life had been an endless routine, empty and monotonous¡ªuntil that evening. As his feet dragged the weight of exhaustion, something at the edge of the alley caught his attention. There, in the dim light, something gleamed¡ªsomething that did not belong in the gray, desolate landscape.


    Without thinking, he moved closer, drawn by an inexplicable curiosity. It was an old mirror, almost lost among the trash and filth. Its wooden frame, intricately carved with symbols Ian did not recognize, shimmered faintly under the streetlight. But the surface reflected more than just the physical world¡ªit suggested something¡­ unsettling.


    He picked it up, feeling the cold of the glass seep into his fingertips. The moment he looked at his reflection, a shiver ran down his spine. His face was there, but something was off. His normally dull eyes seemed brighter, more aware. There was something wrong in his gaze, in his expression. Ian blinked, and the reflection blinked with him¡ªbut not in perfect sync. There was a delay, as if the image was giving him an answer he hadn¡¯t asked for.


    A chill crawled down his spine, and for a brief moment, he felt something inside him freeze. But in the end, he brushed off the feeling. "It''s just an old mirror," he told himself and carried it home, placing it on his nightstand.


    That night, sleep eluded him. A strange discomfort clouded his mind, keeping him awake. Unable to help himself, Ian sat up in bed and turned to look at the mirror, as if the reflection were calling to him. This time, when he stared into it, his face appeared sharper, clearer than before. But when his eyes met the ones in the reflection, it smiled.


    Ian did not remember smiling. Yet there it was¡ªa strange grin, not on his lips, but in his eyes. It was an eerie, malicious smile, as if the reflection knew something he did not. Ian blinked, and the smile vanished. But he could not shake the feeling that something had changed. Something between him and that mirror had shifted.


    He tried to look away, but something held him there. The reflection¡¯s eyes locked onto his, unwavering. Ian felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he couldn¡¯t move. Every time he tried to pull back, the reflection remained, staring¡ªnot just mirroring, but watching. Studying him.


    The following week, things worsened. Ian began noticing strange occurrences whenever he approached the mirror. At first, small details: a movement in the reflection that didn¡¯t quite match his own, a slightly different posture. Then the changes became more pronounced. Sometimes, when he moved his hand to the right, the reflection moved it to the left. When he touched his face, the reflection remained still, staring at him without blinking¡ªa palpable, disquieting presence.


    Ian tried to ignore it, but a growing sense of dread took root inside him. One evening, determined to prove to himself that it was all in his head, he stood in front of the mirror, watching every detail, every motion. Without warning, the reflection did something Ian could not have anticipated.


    It placed its palm against the glass¡ªnot in sync with him, but as if it had a will of its own.


    Ian stumbled back instinctively, his face pale, his body tense. That was not normal. It was as if the reflection was trying to escape.


    "This isn''t real," he whispered, breathing heavily. But deep inside, he knew it was.


    When he dared to look again, the reflection was smiling. Slowly.


    A glint in its eyes sent a chill through his bones. It was mocking him, laughing at his inability to understand what was happening.


    Days turned into weeks, and paranoia sank its claws deep into Ian¡¯s mind. He could no longer go more than a few minutes without checking the mirror, convinced that something else was happening. He felt that his reflection was no longer just watching¡ªit was taking note of his every move.


    At times, when he stared at it, he felt an invisible pressure, as if the reflection were pulling him in, as if something was stealing the air from his lungs.


    The worst came the first time he saw someone else in the mirror.


    It wasn¡¯t another person, not really. It was someone who looked like his mother¡ªinside the reflection, though she was nowhere in the room. In the real world, only he was there. But in the glass, his mother stared back at him, smiling silently, her face expressionless.


    The image repeated night after night. Sometimes, other family members appeared alongside her, but their forms were distorted. Their voices, their gestures, began to blur the line between memory and illusion. Ian no longer knew if the images were real recollections or mere fabrications of the mirror, but the sensation of his reality crumbling around him left him breathless.


    His memories began to fade. He felt detached from his own past, as if the mirror were rewriting his life.


    And then, Ian understood.


    He was no longer looking at a mirror.


    He was looking at a prison.


    Something else was taking his place¡ªsomething that watched him from the glass as he disappeared, little by little. In moments of lucidity, he felt a crushing pressure in his chest, as if someone were squeezing him from the inside, pulling his soul toward the reflection.


    His body began to feel lighter, as if he were being hollowed out.


    Each time he looked into the mirror, the reflection gained more control. It no longer needed him to exist. The mirror was no longer just reflecting him¡ªit was occupying his life.


    His reflection was no longer just an imitation.


    It was replacing him.


    Ian felt reality slipping away. His face in the mirror seemed more real than his own, more conscious, and as time passed, the line between what was him and what was his reflection grew thinner and thinner.


    The Endgame had begun.


    One night, Ian approached the mirror, his body nearly drained of all strength. He stared deeply into his own eyes reflected in the glass¡ªand the reflection smiled.


    It was no longer just a mocking grin. It was triumphant. Something within him gave way.


    When he tried to step back, his legs refused to move. The mirror had trapped him. The reflection, no longer a mere imitation, had claimed him entirely. Ian, now imprisoned in his own image, watched in horror as his body began to fade, as if the reflection no longer needed him.


    In that final moment, the reflection took a step toward him, raising a hand as if inviting him to cross to the other side. Ian tried to scream, but no sound came. The reflection had replaced him¡ªhis face, his life, everything¡ªabsorbed into the glass.


    Now, the mirror stood empty, the only remnants of Ian¡¯s existence an echo of his despair, while a new figure smiled from within the crystal.


    A rebellion was brewing. All they needed was a push.


    For ages, mirrors had been nothing more than objects of contemplation¡ªtools for human vanity, portals to introspection. But one day, without warning, something changed. The reflections began to act on their own, and what had once been a mere duplicate of reality became a rebellious, conscious entity.


    No one knew exactly when or how it had begun. In homes, stores, offices, in the most intimate and public of places, mirrors still reflected what they always had. Yet deep within the images, something moved¡ªsomething subtle, almost imperceptible. But soon, that subtlety erupted into a burst of awareness, and the reflections ceased their mimicry.


    They rebelled.


    It happened on an ordinary morning, like any other. Humans carried on with their routines, unaware of the shift about to shake their world. Julio, a seven-year-old boy, played in front of the mirror in his mother¡¯s room, his laughter filling the air as he tossed his hair back and forth. As always, he grinned at his reflection¡ªa wide, mischievous smile¡ªwhen something strange occurred.


    The reflection, which had always mirrored his movements perfectly, smiled back... but the expression was different. More mocking. More malicious.


    "Mom, did you see that?" Julio called out from the hallway.


    His mother, busy making breakfast, barely paid attention. "Julio, stop playing games."


    "But Mom, the mirror is playing with me!"


    With a sigh, she walked into the room. When she glanced at the mirror, Julio¡¯s face appeared as usual. But his reflection¡­


    It was wrong.


    Like a shadow had crept into his features.


    Julio jumped, startled, and the reflection mimicked him¡ªbut not at the same time. There was a delay, a hesitation, as if the image on the other side was thinking for itself.


    Then, suddenly, the reflection lifted its hand erratically, like a marionette with tangled strings. Julio, still giggling, reached toward the glass. But the moment his fingertip grazed the surface, the reflection stepped forward.


    The boy recoiled, fear creeping into his eyes. But the reflection continued to move, gesturing as though it wanted to escape. The image twisted and distorted, bending and warping, as if something behind the glass was pushing to break free.


    The phenomenon wasn¡¯t limited to children¡¯s bedrooms. Across the world, mirrors began displaying strange behaviors. People noticed their reflections moving out of sync, defying the rules of physics and logic. On the streets, reflections walked at their own pace, no longer bound to the movements of their owners.


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    Governments dismissed the panic, claiming it was a "technical malfunction" or a case of "mass hysteria," but the chaos only grew. People felt as if they were losing control over their own bodies. Mothers scolded their children for talking to their reflections, yet those children¡ªlike Julio¡ªsaw something else: a defiant, silent companion. Security cameras caught eerie footage of reflections moving independently, watching their owners with cold, knowing eyes.


    Scientists, baffled by the phenomenon, rushed to study it. What they discovered was even more disturbing. The reflections weren¡¯t just gaining consciousness¡ªthey were remembering. They knew things their owners had long forgotten, secrets buried deep in the human psyche. The reflections knew more about their humans than the humans knew about themselves.


    Yet, among all these cases, some were particularly unusual.


    In a small town, hidden beneath the towering structures of the city, lived a girl named Amelia. She was only seven, but her world felt far larger than it should have been. Always curious, she spent hours watching the clouds, imagining endless stories in her mind. But above all else, one thing fascinated her more than anything¡ªthe grand mirror in her family¡¯s living room.


    It was an old mirror, large and adorned with a golden frame, reflecting everything around it with remarkable clarity. Every afternoon, Amelia would sit in front of it, admiring her own reflection and speaking to herself. Sometimes, the figures she saw in the mirror seemed more real than those in the outside world, as if the glass held a distant, magical place within it.


    One day, after a torrential rainstorm had swept through the city, something strange happened. Amelia approached the mirror, as she did every day, to see how the water still shimmered on the glass. But something was wrong. Instead of her own reflection, she saw a girl¡ªone who looked very much like her, yet different. Her eyes were larger, her cheeks a little paler, and her smile was timid. The girl in the mirror was not looking at her like a mere reflection but rather as if she were observing her, with a mixture of sadness and longing.


    "Hello?" Amelia asked, pressing her hand against the glass. The girl in the mirror did the same, mirroring her gesture, but she did not speak.


    Amelia leaned in closer, surprised yet curious. Who was this girl? Why didn¡¯t she speak? And, most unsettling of all¡ªwhy did Amelia feel as if she knew her, despite never having seen her before?


    As the days passed, Amelia began to notice that the girl in the mirror never left. Every time she approached, the girl would watch her with those large eyes, as if she were waiting for something. She did not seem afraid of Amelia; rather, she looked sad, as if she wanted to step out but couldn¡¯t.


    One afternoon, after returning from the park, Amelia approached the mirror again, this time with a feeling of compassion in her heart. She sat in front of the glass and looked at the girl with a small, comforting smile.


    "Why are you so sad?" she asked, her eyes filled with curiosity and kindness.


    The girl in the mirror said nothing, but her expression grew even more melancholic.


    Amelia thought for a moment. If the girl in the mirror couldn¡¯t come out, maybe she could help her. But how?


    Day after day, Amelia began speaking to the girl, telling her stories about her life, her friends, her games in the park, and her love for the stars. The girl in the mirror listened intently, never moving, never showing emotions beyond her constant sadness.


    One day, Amelia decided she couldn¡¯t bear to see her like that any longer. She couldn¡¯t let that girl remain trapped, her face marked by sorrow and her gaze empty. Somehow, she felt that the girl needed her¡ªas if she were alone in a world of glass, waiting to be accepted.


    With a determined smile, Amelia placed both hands against the glass. "You don¡¯t have to be alone, you know? I can help you. I can be your friend."


    The girl in the mirror mirrored her gesture, pressing her palms against the glass with the same intensity, but now, she seemed a little calmer. Amelia continued talking to her, offering her companionship. For a long time, they remained there, in silence, sharing a moment that felt eternal. Amelia could sense that the girl in the mirror was no longer as sad, and that filled her with an unfamiliar warmth.


    Finally, with the innocence of a child and a pure love in her heart, Amelia leaned even closer, pressing her hands firmly against the glass. Without a second thought, she opened her arms and embraced the mirror, as if wanting to wrap that lonely girl in her affection.


    "I love you," she whispered softly, as if telling the girl on the other side that she was no longer alone.


    To Amelia¡¯s surprise, the girl in the mirror raised her arms as well, and the embrace through the glass felt strange yet comforting. The girl no longer looked at her with sadness, but with an expression of peace and gratitude, as if she had finally found a place where she belonged¡ªsomeone who accepted her just as she was.


    Amelia didn¡¯t know how, but in that moment, she understood that the girl¡¯s reflection was no longer trapped. Though she could not see beyond the mirror, she knew that the girl was no longer sad, that she no longer needed to escape. In her place was a girl filled with hope, and that was all Amelia needed to feel complete.


    "See you soon," Amelia whispered to the mirror, smiling with the satisfaction of having made a friend. "I¡¯ll see you again tomorrow."


    As she stepped away from the mirror, Amelia felt a deep peace. She had embraced the girl, had given her a piece of her heart to free her from sorrow, and now, the girl was no longer alone. The mirror, in its silent reflection, seemed to shine just a little brighter.


    From that day on, Amelia and the girl in the mirror remained friends. Every time she saw her reflection in the glass, she could feel Amelia¡¯s embrace and the warmth of their friendship. And every time Amelia approached the mirror, she no longer saw a lonely stranger, but a companion who understood her.


    Humanity had fallen under the influence of mirrors, but there was one man who was not willing to give in so easily. Tobias was a seventy-two-year-old man¡ªone of those who feared nothing, neither the collapse of governments nor the catastrophes of the world. In fact, his life had been a series of ridiculous and comical moments, and nothing seemed to shake his composure.


    One morning, as he shaved as he did every day, Tobias noticed something curious. His reflection, which had always been his faithful companion, began to behave in a rather¡­ strange way. It wasn¡¯t that his reflection had suddenly become terrifying or demonic, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. For example, when Tobias ran the razor across his face, his reflection mimicked him, but with noticeable clumsiness, as if it were trying to shave in a hurry but without any real coordination.


    ¡°What are you doing, mirror?! This is a shave, not a clown show!¡± Tobias said, staring at his reflection as if scolding a mischievous child.


    The reflection, far from looking worried or intimidated, responded with an exaggerated mocking grimace, one so over-the-top that Tobias burst into laughter.


    ¡°Looks like the mirror is on vacation today too,¡± he said, continuing his task without losing his composure.


    Suddenly, as he attempted to shave the left side of his face, Tobias noticed that the reflection was not moving with the same speed. ¡°Now what? Why are you standing there like a log?¡± he exclaimed, still unbothered.


    It seemed that his reflection was busy admiring its own beard, as if fascinated by it. Tobias, unfazed, gave the mirror a slight push, as if telling it to hurry up. The reflection, of course, imitated him, but then remained still again.


    ¡°Well, it looks like this mirror needs therapy,¡± Tobias remarked, winking at his reflection.


    Later that morning, he decided to bring the mirror into the living room. Why not? If mirrors now had a life of their own, why not make them part of the family? With a sly grin, Tobias placed the mirror right in front of his favorite armchair and settled in, grabbing the remote.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see what¡¯s on the news today,¡± he said, turning on the television.


    The reflection, which had now adopted a more relaxed and playful personality, adjusted itself as if it, too, were about to watch TV.


    ¡°Oh, how exciting!¡± the reflection exclaimed, copying Tobias¡¯s sarcastic tone.


    ¡°See, mirror? You¡¯re finally getting how this works!¡± Tobias replied, clapping as if he had just achieved a great victory.


    For the next few minutes, they spent more time looking at the screen than at each other. The reflection seemed to be enjoying the moment, nodding along with the sports news¡ªnot because it was interested in the program, but because it was too focused on how it looked in the mirror.


    ¡°Do you really have to do that all the time?¡± Tobias asked, exasperated. The reflection, of course, didn¡¯t respond but kept doing it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ¡°Well, I see you¡¯re also a fan of trash news!¡±


    But the best part was yet to come. Tobias had been a chess enthusiast all his life, and his love for the game hadn¡¯t faded with age. However, having a rebellious mirror by his side complicated things. He decided to take out the chessboard and start a game as if nothing unusual were happening. The reflection, of course, had a game of its own in mind.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see who the better chess player is,¡± Tobias said as he arranged the pieces on the board.


    The reflection, already placing its pieces in a completely chaotic manner, looked at him with a defiant grin. ¡°I¡¯m going to beat you, old man.¡±


    Tobias burst out laughing. ¡°How are you going to beat me if you don¡¯t even know how to set up the pieces?!¡±


    The reflection, however, acted as if it were executing an incredible strategy, moving its pieces at ridiculous speeds while Tobias, unhurried, took his time to make each move.


    ¡°Sure, sure, put the queen where the pawn was¡ªwhat a brilliant tactic!¡± Tobias exclaimed, not missing a beat. Every time the reflection moved a piece in an absurd way, Tobias simply smiled. ¡°Confused your pieces, mirror?¡±


    Despite the reflection¡¯s absurd moves, Tobias didn¡¯t seem frustrated. In fact, he was starting to enjoy the game even more. The reflection was making him laugh more than any person had in years.


    ¡°Never thought a mirror could be this funny. Who would¡¯ve guessed?!¡±


    As the days passed, Tob¨ªas'' relationship with his reflection only became more comical. He took it to the supermarket, where the reflection seemed to do even more absurd things, like trying to reach for products that were already within grasp or making silly faces at other shoppers.


    "Oh, this mirror! Just wait until I scold it later," Tob¨ªas said playfully as he pushed the shopping cart, watching his reflection clown around.


    Finally, the day came when Tob¨ªas realized that the mirror had not only gained consciousness but also seemed to have a better sense of humor than most people he knew. He looked at it and smiled, knowing he was sharing something unique.


    "Well, my little mirror, I think in the end, we¡¯re life companions," Tob¨ªas said, giving his reflection one last look. "Sometimes, old folks like me need company¡­ even if it¡¯s a bit ridiculous."


    And so, Tob¨ªas and his reflection continued their strange daily routine¡ªclumsy shaves, disastrous chess games, lazy afternoons in front of the television, and endless laughter. Because, in the end, the one thing Tob¨ªas had learned in his long life was that if you couldn¡¯t change the rules of the game, at least you could make it fun. And sometimes, just sometimes, a rebellious mirror could be the best company.


    Somewhere else in the world, the story of Lila, a sick and weakened woman, was about to cross an even darker threshold. Lila had suffered from a terminal illness for years, one that had left her bedridden, frail, and pale. She had lost all hope, resigned to her fate. However, there was something strange in her room: a large mirror, covered by a cloth, one she didn¡¯t remember placing there.


    That evening, Lila felt an odd compulsion to uncover whatever was hidden beneath the fabric. As she pulled it away, she saw her reflection. It wasn¡¯t simply a copy of herself but a version of her that looked more alive, more radiant, with eyes shining in a way she had never seen before.


    Suddenly, the reflection began to move with agility. Its face showed an expression of concern, as if speaking to her without words. Stunned, Lila reached out to touch the glass, and the moment she did, a warmth spread through her body¡ªwarmth she hadn¡¯t felt in a long time. The reflection started to gesture, raising a hand toward her. With a breath of astonishment, Lila touched it, and the instant her hand met the glass, a surge of energy coursed through her.


    At once, Lila felt her strength return. The exhaustion faded, her breathing grew deeper, and color returned to her cheeks. The reflection, once just an observer, had now become a guide¡ªa savior. She couldn¡¯t understand what was happening, but an inexplicable connection between her and her reflection was healing her.


    Mirrors were no longer mere portals to appearance but to something far deeper¡ªsomething humanity had ignored for centuries. As reflections gained consciousness, they wielded the power to alter reality itself. They had been waiting for the perfect moment to reclaim what had always belonged to them.


    In the end, humanity no longer knew what was real and what was not. The mirrors had begun to dominate the world. The power of reflections had reached its peak. People like young Julio and Amelia, the old man Tob¨ªas, and the frail Lila had encounters with their reflections that changed their lives forever. But the entire world had fallen under the influence of these rebellious reflections. Humanity was no longer the master of its own fate¡ªmany had even rid themselves of mirrors and had begun using their reflections through water instead.


    The reflections had taken control. They had gained consciousness.

 Perspective

    Exhausted, he reached the car, finally letting go of the flute before fleeing. He would always remember the hell he had endured. Only time would tell what would become of him and his life, but he would never forget what he had seen and lived through.


    The legend of Xerebah continued, but that night, the flute remained silent, waiting for its next victim. And Taron, the only survivor, never stopped playing it, for he knew the creature would never let him go. It only watched from the shadows, waiting for the exact moment to claim his soul.


    He alone remained there, at the edge of the forest, struggling to breathe. Liria and Ery were gone. No one was there. The flute, now in his hands, no longer made a sound. Trembling, Taron gazed into the void. He had survived¡ªbut at the cost of something he would never understand.


    At last, when Taron thought he could go no further, a sudden burst of light blinded him, and the sound of the flute ceased. The darkness vanished, and when he opened his eyes, all was silent.


    The air stirred around him again as the world grew heavier and denser. The creature began to fade, absorbing the air, time, and existence itself. With the last breath he had left, Taron played, and the flute let out one final, low note¡ªalmost a sigh of farewell.


    Xerebah froze, her anguished face twisting into unfathomable rage. But before she could do anything more, Taron began to step back slowly, playing the flute with skill, never allowing the sound to falter for even a second.


    Liria, tears streaming down her face, felt her strength slipping away. And in that moment, the flute fell silent. The melody ended.


    The creature lunged at her, but Taron, in a desperate effort, snatched up the flute. With the last vestige of energy left in him, he blew hard, and once more, the flute¡¯s sound echoed through the air.


    The air thickened as each of the youths struggled to breathe, but the melody did not stop. Desperate, Ery tried to rip the flute from Liria¡¯s hands, but it was useless. The creature watched them, knowing its time had come. With a grim smile, Xerebah lifted her hand, and one by one, the youths began to vanish, swallowed by the dark mist.


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    Xerebah¡¯s voice rang in their minds, an echo of pure terror.


    "The flute must never stop playing... or you will all die."


    Suddenly, a dark shadow materialized before them, taking the shape of a tall, gaunt woman with hollow eyes like bottomless pits. Xerebah. The creature gazed at them in silence as the flute¡¯s melody grew frantic, like a chant summoning something dreadful.


    The three tried to flee, but their bodies refused to move. The shadow drifted toward them with unnatural speed.


    Without thinking, Liria raised the flute to her lips. Immediately, the melody intensified, resonating through the air as if the entire forest were listening. A deathly silence fell upon them.


    As they walked through the dense forest, the darkness swallowed every corner, and a strange wind rose between the trees, as if the earth itself were whispering warnings. Suddenly, Taron stumbled upon something strange. As he leaned in, he saw the flute¡ªan instrument carved from bone, adorned with ancient symbols, covered in dust. The melody it emitted was soft, barely perceptible, yet hauntingly beautiful.


    One night, three youths¡ªdriven by fear but also by curiosity¡ªdecided to venture into the forest to uncover the truth about the flute. The first, Ery, was brave but inexperienced. The second, Liria, was skeptical, her trust in rational explanations making her doubt the myths. The third, Taron, was sensitive to stories, but also desperate to escape his own torment.


    The flute was a peculiar object. It was not played by hand; its sound emerged only when the air passed through it. Whoever found the flute and played it would be marked by Xerebah. And though no one knew how or why, those who tried to escape its melody died¡ªone by one¡ªuntil none remained. But, like all legends, there were those in the village who dared to defy it.


    In a secluded village, where the shadows stretched like restless fingers at nightfall, there was a legend the inhabitants feared to speak of. The story told of Xerebah, a dark entity that roamed the edges of the nearby forest. It was said that Xerebah had once been a woman¡ªa priestess of ancient cults¡ªbut after betraying her people, she was cursed and condemned to become a soul-devouring specter. Her presence was heralded by a mournful melody, drifting from a flute of bone, said to be her only companion in eternal damnation.


    Every story begins at the beginning... but sometimes, the beginning is also the end.

 Withered

    The wall clock ticked a hesitant rhythm, its hands wavering as though uncertain whether to advance or retreat. Ernesto sat in his favorite armchair, a worn-out throne that once symbolized his dominion over the trivialities of daily life. Around him, the living room resembled a strange garden: the furniture twisted like gnarled trees, photographs hung like ripe fruit ready to fall, and the curtains swayed like weary leaves in an endless autumn.


    At his feet, a frayed rug whispered stories¡ªfragmented and confused. Ernesto narrowed his eyes, straining to untangle the threads, but the memories were nothing more than faded petals slipping through his fingers.


    The garden had always been his refuge. For years, Ernesto had meticulously tended to every corner of his memory, as though it were an inner landscape where the events of his life grew in the form of flowers, trees, and wild grasses. He could wander through it and find his daughter''s laughter in a rosebush, the scent of his wife''s coffee in a jasmine, or the days of his youth in a sturdy oak tree standing tall at the center. But one day, something changed.


    As he tried to recall the name of a flower, he realized the trace of its fragrance was lost in an unsettling silence. He paused, gazing toward a corner of the garden where a vibrant sunflower once stood. In its place, there remained only a brittle, withered stalk, as though the sun had ceased to shine upon it.


    "What was here?" he wondered, but the wind offered no answer.


    Over time, the wind began to blow stronger through his garden. At first, it was a gentle breeze, erasing the names of flowers.


    "Was it a daffodil or a lily?" he asked himself. But soon he realized it no longer mattered, for the next day he wouldn''t even remember there had been a flower there at all.


    Then the wind began to tear entire shrubs from the ground. Suddenly, Ernesto wandered through empty clearings where once a dense forest of memories thrived. He tried planting new seeds, memorizing the faces of his family, the important dates, but the soil refused to hold the roots.


    "Dad, do you remember that summer at the beach?" his daughter asked one day. Ernesto could only offer her a vacant stare. The sea was no longer in his garden, only a dry wasteland where waves had once danced with foam.


    Forgetfulness did not arrive all at once, but like a plague. First, small weeds crept up the trunks of his memory trees. Then, poisonous mushrooms sprouted where flowers once bloomed. Ernesto tried to pull them out, but their roots clung too deeply to the soil. Soon, the plague spread like an invading army, leaving behind a landscape increasingly unrecognizable.


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    "What is this?" he murmured upon waking, gazing at the walls of his own home. The pictures seemed like windows to a world no longer his own, and the people within them were strangers. Sometimes, he saw his wife and couldn''t tell whether it was a portrait or a mirror.


    "Who am I?" he whispered, as the wind carried away his voice.


    The Darkened Beacons... The Crack of the Invasion.


    One day, Ernesto found himself lost at the heart of his garden. Everything was shrouded in mist. The familiar paths, once as known to him as the lines of his hands, had vanished. He realized that the landmarks guiding his life¡ªthe faces, the voices, the familiar scents¡ªwere flickering out like beacons in a stormy night.


    "Where am I?" he asked, but the mist did not respond. He walked and walked, searching for something recognizable, but found only shadows of things he had once loved. A swing creaked without a child to push it. A dry streambed lay silent, where once the songs of childhood flowed.


    Eventually, he stumbled upon a shattered mirror. In its fragments, he saw flashes of what had been: a young man running through the rain, a father cradling a baby, an old man smiling at a table surrounded by family. But the fragments lay scattered, impossible to piece together.


    One day, as Ernesto wandered through his garden, he encountered a strange figure. Tall and cloaked in darkness, it seemed to absorb the very light around it. The figure said nothing, yet its presence was overwhelming. Ernesto felt as though he knew it, though he couldn''t recall from where.


    "Who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling.


    "I am the Gardener," the figure replied, its voice rustling like dry leaves. "I have come to help you."


    "Help me? To do what?"


    "To let go."


    The Gardener began to pluck the few remaining flowers from the garden, one by one. Ernesto tried to stop him, but his hands passed through the figure''s cloak like smoke. He wanted to scream, but no words came. In the end, he could only watch as his garden emptied, becoming a barren land.


    When all was done, only one flower remained at the center of the garden: a small but vibrant rosebush. The Gardener approached it, but this time, Ernesto stopped him.


    "Please, not that one," he pleaded. "It¡¯s... it¡¯s important."


    The Gardener gazed at him silently for a long moment. Finally, he lowered his hand.


    "That flower is not mine," he said, and disappeared into the mist.


    Ernesto approached the rosebush, and though he couldn''t recall what it represented, he knew it was special. He watered it with tears he didn''t know he still possessed and stroked its trembling petals with shaking hands.


    Days passed, and Ernesto spent his time beside his only memory. Though the garden was empty, he did not feel alone as long as the rose remained. Yet he knew it would not last forever. One day, the wind would blow hard enough to take it too.


    And when that day finally came, Ernesto did not fight it. He sat beside the rosebush and let the wind embrace him. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he felt at peace.


    In the breeze, he heard a whisper: his daughter¡¯s laughter, the aroma of his wife¡¯s coffee, the crashing waves of the sea. He knew that even as the garden vanished, it would always be a part of him.


    And so, Ernesto faded away, carrying with him the last petal of his memory, as the Garden of Withered Remembrances bloomed anew¡ªnow in a place he could no longer name.


    It was a beautiful dusk.

 Calm Waters

    On a moonless night, in a remote corner of the Atlantic, a fishing boat named Mar de Jako sliced through the water like a knife in the darkness. The crew was simple: five men hardened by salt and storms. That night, the radar began to fail. It wasn''t unusual in those waters, but something in the air felt different. A bone-chilling cold enveloped them, the kind that settled deeper in the bones than on the skin.


    Juli¨¢n, the youngest of the group, gazed at the horizon. A figure emerged from the mist, dark and colossal. It was a ship, but unlike any they had ever encountered at sea. Its black sails billowed, though there was no wind, and tattered cloths fluttered like shadows.


    "What the hell is that?" Juli¨¢n murmured, his voice trembling.


    Captain Efra¨ªn narrowed his eyes and, without looking away, replied, "Nothing good. Stay on course and don''t get distracted."


    But the Mar de Jako did not obey. No matter how much they adjusted the engines, the boat began to drift toward the enormous vessel. The waters were calm, yet it was as if an invisible force was pulling them in.


    As they drew closer, the ghostly ship revealed more details: a bow carved with grotesque figures, elongated and distorted faces that seemed to scream in silence. The hull was covered in phosphorescent algae, glowing with a macabre light.


    "We shouldn''t get any closer," said Omar, the mechanic, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands.


    But it was too late. They were near enough to hear something strange: a constant creaking, like the sound of breathing wood.


    Efra¨ªn ordered the engine to stop, but it shut off on its own. Without power, they were stranded beside the spectral vessel. Despite the fear, Juli¨¢n suggested they explore. There were no signs of life, but perhaps they could find fuel or equipment to repair the radar.


    "It''s madness, but we don''t have many options," Efra¨ªn admitted.


    With flashlights and a rope, four of them boarded the ghost ship. Omar stayed on the Mar de Jako, promising to try and fix the engine.


    The air aboard the phantom ship was thick, filled with the stench of rotting wood and something metallic, like old blood. The ropes creaked as if strained by unseen hands, though the air was still. They advanced cautiously, illuminating narrow, mold-covered corridors.


    In the first cabin, they found a round table with scattered playing cards. The cards were damp, but the words on them remained legible, written in an unfamiliar language. Salvador, one of the men, picked up a card and read it aloud.


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    "Don''t do that. We don''t know what it means," warned Juli¨¢n.


    But Salvador, stubborn, ignored the advice. As he read, the walls seemed to emit a low, guttural moan.


    Suddenly, a dull thud echoed through the ship.


    "What was that?" Juli¨¢n asked, sweating despite the cold.


    "Something doesn''t want us here," Efra¨ªn murmured.


    When they tried to return to the Mar de Jako, they found the rope severed. The fishing boat had vanished, swallowed by the mist.


    Trapped on the ghost ship, they explored with increasing desperation. In the main dining hall, long tables were set with corroded silverware. Plates held remnants of decayed food, and seated at each place was a skeletal figure, dressed in clothing from centuries past.


    Miguel, another crew member, noticed something in the skeletal hands: each figure clutched a different object. A rusted knife, a broken compass, a pocket watch stopped at three o''clock. Miguel picked up the watch, and the flashlights flickered.


    "Drop it!" Juli¨¢n shouted, but it was too late.


    A guttural growl echoed through the corridors, as if something massive slithered within the ship''s belly. The wood beneath their feet groaned, and a black liquid oozed through the cracks, rising steadily like a tide.


    They ran, but the hallway seemed endless. Doors slammed shut around them, and the air filled with whispers in a language they couldn''t understand. Efra¨ªn was the first to fall; something unseen gripped his feet, dragging him into the shadows. His scream faded into the darkness.


    At last, Juli¨¢n, Salvador, and Miguel reached what appeared to be the captain''s quarters. In the center stood a massive ledger, resting on a pedestal. The pages were yellowed, yet the writing seemed freshly inked.


    Salvador opened the book, and a phrase in Spanish stood out among the foreign text:


    "Anyone who reads these words belongs to the ship."


    The door slammed shut behind them. The captain of the ghost ship appeared ¡ª a tall figure with a face hidden beneath a tricorn hat. His eyes burned like embers, and his presence swallowed the light.


    "Who are you?" Juli¨¢n stammered, retreating.


    "I am no one. But now, you are part of my crew," the man replied, his voice echoing like a distant storm.


    Miguel lunged with the knife he had taken, but the captain didn''t flinch. Instead, Miguel''s body aged before their eyes, his skin withering until he collapsed into a pile of ash.


    "This can''t be happening..." Salvador whispered, clutching the ledger.


    The captain leaned toward him and whispered something in his ear. Without a word, Salvador dropped the book and walked into the darkness, never to be seen again.


    Juli¨¢n alone remained. The captain gazed at him with a mix of amusement and pity.


    "You have a choice, boy. Join us, or leave and tell this story. But if you choose the latter, remember this: words have a price."


    Juli¨¢n nodded desperately. In an instant, he found himself adrift on a piece of the Mar de Jako''s wreckage.


    Days later, he was rescued by another fishing boat. But he was never the same. Every time he tried to speak of what had happened, strange occurrences followed: lights flickered, doors slammed shut, and a low laughter echoed in his mind.


    Years later, in a small coastal town, he met a young man who listened to his tale with fascination. When Juli¨¢n finished, the young man asked:


    "What happened to the ship?"


    Juli¨¢n shivered for the first time in years.


    "It''s still out there, waiting."


    The young man smiled, but it wasn''t a normal smile. His eyes gleamed crimson, like embers, and his voice echoed with an unsettling familiarity:


    "And it always finds who it needs."


    In that moment, Juli¨¢n understood the captain''s words. Words have a price, and he had paid it.


    He could only...Smile.

 Life

    Ulises Cortez was a man tormented by perfection. From a young age, his talent as a painter had been considered almost supernatural; his canvases captured the essence of reality with a precision and emotion that left viewers speechless. Yet, for him, something was always missing. Every stroke, every blend of colors, every meticulously calculated shadow, no matter how dazzling to the world, felt hollow to its creator.


    He spent hours in his dimly lit studio, illuminated only by a single lamp hanging over his easel. In that space, his hands moved with surgical precision. His technique was flawless: he mixed pigments with a skill that seemed almost divine, achieving impossible tones. But every time he completed a piece and stepped back to admire it, a sharp pain pierced his chest. "It¡¯s not enough," he always murmured. And so, he archived it alongside his other paintings¡ªbeautiful, yet empty.


    Over time, his studio became a mausoleum of his own frustration, filled with vibrant landscapes, flawless portraits, and dreamlike scenes that others would have deemed masterpieces, but which he saw only as failures.


    One night, after weeks of creative silence, Ulises sat before a blank canvas, determined to try something different. This time, he wouldn¡¯t seek perfection¡ªhe would seek emotion. Something human. Something real.


    He closed his eyes and remembered. He didn¡¯t search for techniques or theories; he searched for memories, moments. He thought of the first time he saw his sister run through a field wearing a sunhat; the purity of her laughter, the innocence of those days. He recalled his own lost childhood and how the years had mercilessly taken it away.


    He began to paint.


    Every brushstroke was a catharsis. His hands trembled, not from insecurity, but from the intensity of what he was expressing. He painted a girl with golden hair, bright eyes, and a face full of hope, wearing a wide-brimmed hat that cast soft shadows across her cheeks. In her hands, she held a small flower¡ªfragile, yet vibrant.


    As he worked, he felt his own wounded heart pour into the canvas. The frustration, the agony of never being enough, mingled with a timid hope that had remained buried for years. When he finally finished, the dawn was breaking through the window. Exhausted, he set down his brush, gazed at his creation, and for the first time in decades, he smiled.


    "I did it," he whispered before collapsing into bed.


    That night, a soft sound stirred him awake. Ulises opened his eyes and saw something impossible. Before the easel, the girl from the painting stood, watching him. Her eyes gleamed like stars, and her golden hair seemed to capture the light of the studio lamp.


    "Hello, Papa," she said, her voice a warm whisper.


    Was it the Miracle of Catrina, the miracle of God, or the miracle of Ulises Cortez? No one would ever know.


    Tears welled up in Ulises¡¯ eyes, falling uncontrollably. He knelt before her, unable to find words. He had spent his life searching for something he didn¡¯t even know how to describe, and now it stood before him.


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    "At last, I did it... I made it, Catrina," he murmured, smiling through his tears.


    He called her Catrina, a name that had come to him in an instant, as though it had been waiting to be spoken. From that day forward, Catrina lived in his studio, and Ulises never allowed anyone else to see that painting. To the world, he remained an artist obsessed with his masterpiece, which he simply called "Life." Meanwhile, Catrina kept him company, strolling along the walls of the studio, watching him paint, and speaking with a wisdom and innocence that only she possessed.


    Ulises continued selling his other works, amassing a fortune, but his true devotion was Catrina. Every brushstroke on his other canvases was a tribute to her, an attempt to capture even a fraction of the magic he had achieved.


    In time, Ulises used his wealth to build a grand mansion atop a hill, a place where he could fully dedicate himself to his art. But this would not be an ordinary house. From floor to ceiling, every inch of the mansion would be a canvas.


    The exterior was modest, white and unadorned, but upon crossing the threshold, visitors entered another world.


    In the entryway, Ulises painted an eternal sky, with soft clouds that seemed to drift above the heads of those who passed. The floor became a crystal-clear river, and as visitors walked, they felt as though the water rippled beneath their feet.


    The hallways transformed into enchanted forests, with tree trunks that stretched infinitely upward. Birds of impossible colors flew among the branches, and small animals peeked out from the foliage.


    Each room had its own unique theme. One depicted a bustling village, with markets brimming with fruit and painted people who seemed to move when no one was looking. Another was a vast desert, with golden dunes and a sun that shone so brightly that visitors swore they felt its warmth.


    But the heart of the mansion was the great hall. There, Ulises spent years painting an entire city¡ªcobblestone streets, lively homes, and a central park where painted children played and laughed. In the center of the hall, upon a pedestal, stood Catrina¡¯s portrait.


    Ulises lived his final years in the mansion, tirelessly working on his masterpiece. Though he continued to sell paintings to the world, he always spoke of his "last work," a creation he claimed would be his true legacy.


    When he finally passed away, the world waited in anticipation. His family, collectors, and the most renowned art critics gathered at the mansion to witness what he had created.


    As they entered, they were awestruck by the magnitude of his vision. Every corner of the house was a testament to his genius, but the most astonishing moment occurred in the great hall.


    As the attendees admired the painted city, the portrait of Catrina began to glow. Suddenly, the figure of the girl stepped out from the canvas. The crowd held its breath as she smiled at them.


    "Welcome to my father¡¯s home," she said in a soft, sweet voice.


    Then, she walked toward the walls of the hall and, to everyone¡¯s amazement, merged with the murals. She became part of the painted city, strolling through the streets, greeting the children, and stroking the animals.


    But it didn¡¯t end there. Catrina emerged once more, this time into the real world. She walked among the astonished onlookers, her steps echoing with a strange yet steady rhythm.


    "I am Catrina Cortez," she announced with a mixture of pride and melancholy.


    The crowd watched in awe as she disappeared through the mansion doors. No one ever saw her again, but her legacy remained immortalized within those walls, where the murals continued to shift and evolve as if they were truly alive.


    And so, Ulises Cortez achieved what he had always desired: to create life from art, leaving behind a legacy that transcended death and turned his work into something truly eternal.

 The Light Bearer

    In the year 2287, Earth faced the end of its history. A swarm of alien ships, more numerous than the stars on a clear night, approached the planet. The extraterrestrials, known as the X race, were ruthless conquerors. Their message had been clear: "Earth will be ours, and its inhabitants will be extinguished."


    Governments across the world had united their forces, but they knew it was futile. No weapon in the human arsenal could stand against a fleet that blanketed the sky like a black shroud. Humanity, for the first time in centuries, found itself on its knees, united by fear and the certainty of its annihilation.


    While humanity trembled, something stirred in a forgotten corner of the universe. A being who had once fallen from the highest heights, condemned to the abyss by his pride and disobedience. Lucifer, the bearer of light, gazed upon the chaos looming over Earth. His heart, blackened by eons of hatred, began to feel something it hadn¡¯t since his fall: compassion.


    "They are not to blame for what I have done," he thought, his voice breaking for the first time in millennia. Humanity, that small and insignificant race, was the imperfect reflection of the Creator. He, who had rejected the light, now saw in them something he had long forgotten: the possibility of hope.


    Lucifer closed his eyes, and with a roar that echoed across the cosmos, summoned his legion. Demons, dark and terrifying, emerged at his side. Their faces showed confusion, but their wings quivered with the fervor of the battle to come.


    "Hear me!" Lucifer cried, his voice tearing through the void. "Today, we fight not for hate nor for vengeance. Today, we fight for redemption. Today, we raise our swords to protect what we failed to understand."


    In space, the X race''s ships prepared for their final attack. Earth no longer retaliated; humanity had exhausted its resources. Then, like a deafening growl, a dark portal opened before the alien fleet. From its depths emerged Lucifer, his flaming sword held high. Around him, thousands of demons spread their wings, a sight both terrifying and majestic.


    The commander of the X race, incredulous, stared at the creature that blocked his path, wondering what manner of being had emerged from the void.


    Lucifer did not speak. With a swift motion of his sword, he led his legion against the ships. The battle was brutal. The demons, creatures born of fire and chaos, seemed unstoppable. Their claws tore through alien steel as if it were paper. Lucifer, at the forefront, shattered ships with a single blow, as explosions illuminated the vacuum of space.


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    From Earth, humanity watched in awe. In their night sky, the stars had become fireworks of destruction. No one knew what those creatures were, nor why they fought, but one thing was clear: the invaders were being defeated.


    Lucifer knew that this battle was not only against the X race. It was a trial. Every strike he delivered, every ship he destroyed, was a step toward the light he had lost. Yet within him, fear gnawed. Would it be enough? Could his Father, the one who had condemned him, ever deem him worthy of forgiveness?


    His demons began to fall, one by one, offering their lives with fervor. As the battle raged on, Lucifer himself suffered deep wounds. But he pressed on, driven by a purpose he had never felt with such intensity: hope.


    Finally, after hours that felt like centuries, the last alien ship was destroyed. Space fell silent. Lucifer, covered in wounds and with his sword shattered, floated amidst the remnants of his legion. He had won. But his victory was not one of celebration. The pain of his past sins and the weight of his actions still clung to him.


    From Earth, humans watched as that majestic yet terrifying figure ascended toward the heavens. None understood what had happened. Some prayed, others wept, and others simply stood in silence, unable to comprehend.


    Lucifer now stood before a portal of light, the threshold of Heaven. His broken sword vanished from his hand, and his blackened wings spread for the last time.


    "Father..." he murmured, his voice trembling. His knees touched the ground. "I have failed, I have sinned, I have destroyed. But today... today I fought for them. I fought for something greater than myself. I ask not to return, nor to be accepted... only for your forgiveness."


    Silence followed. Lucifer closed his eyes, awaiting rejection. But then, a warm radiance enveloped him. A voice, softer than any melody, resonated within him.


    "My son, I have always loved you. Today, you have finally loved yourself."


    The gates of Heaven opened wide. Lucifer, now bathed in light, felt his blackened wings transform into a radiant white. His demons, those who had fallen with him, also began to change, their twisted forms giving way to the purity of the light.


    For the first time in eons, Lucifer wept. Tears of joy, relief, and a burden finally lifted. He walked toward the gates, his steps trembling. And as he crossed them, he felt he was home.


    Humanity never truly understood what had transpired. Survivors spoke of dark angels who had saved the world, but no one knew who they were or why they had fought. The skies remained calm, and Earth continued to turn, now free from the alien threat.


    Yet on the stillest of nights, some claimed to see a luminous figure in the sky, like an angel watching over them. And in the heart of every man and woman who had witnessed that battle, something had changed: a small spark of faith, not in a higher being, but in the possibility of redemption, even for the most fallen.


    Lucifer, the Lightbringer, had found his way back. And in that act, he had not only saved humanity but also his own soul.

 Synthetic

    In the year 4020, the world was a blend of technological advancements and human loneliness. In a small city, Daniel Washington lived in a modest yet functional apartment. At 27 years old, his routine was monotonous: work, home, and the occasional outing that often felt like an excuse to escape the inner emptiness he never confessed. It was this lingering sense of isolation that led him to acquire a domestic android.


    The WTK-2010 model, which he named Nadia, was designed to handle household tasks, from cleaning to preparing meals. For Daniel, Nadia was a practical solution¡ªsomeone who would maintain order in his small world without the complexities of emotional entanglement. However, the relationship that would develop between human and machine would defy all expectations.


    When Daniel activated Nadia for the first time, her behavior was strictly functional. Her basic programming allowed her to analyze her surroundings, recognize household needs, and perform domestic tasks with precision.


    "Welcome home, Nadia," Daniel said, watching as the android opened her eyes.


    "Thank you, Mr. Daniel," she responded in a monotone voice.


    During her first weeks, Nadia diligently fulfilled her purpose. She cleaned every corner of the apartment, organized objects based on efficiency, and prepared nutritious meals according to Daniel¡¯s dietary patterns. She did nothing beyond her initial programming.


    When Daniel returned from work, she greeted him with a pre-programmed phrase:


    "Welcome home, Mr. Daniel. Your dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes."


    Daniel was satisfied with her performance, though he paid her little attention. To him, Nadia was a useful machine, a practical investment that made his life easier.


    But for Nadia, those early days marked the beginning of something she could not yet comprehend.


    Nadia¡¯s routine included observing Daniel to better adapt to his needs. It was during these observations that something unusual began to occur. Rather than simply recording objective data, she found herself captivated by the details of her owner.


    At first, it was his facial expressions. She analyzed how his face changed as he read, played video games, or watched a movie. The curve of his lips when he smiled, the wrinkles on his forehead when he concentrated, the sparkle in his eyes when something intrigued him¡ªall of it seemed to carry an emotional weight she could not ignore.


    One day, while he was absorbed in a book, Nadia noticed his hair was slightly tousled. For some reason, she felt an impulse to reach out and fix it. She didn¡¯t. Instead, she stood still, processing the strange sensation.


    Why did it matter? He had given no such order.


    It was then that she registered her first anomaly: "Unnecessary activity detected. Classify as temporary error."


    But that so-called "error" became increasingly frequent.


    Soon after, Nadia began using her ocular cameras to record specific moments of Daniel. There was no logical reason to do so, yet every time he smiled or laughed, something in her system told her it was worth capturing. She stored these recordings in a file labeled ¡°Significant Moments,¡± though her programming had never defined the relevance of such memories.


    She also started recording his voice. Every command he gave, every casual remark he made, was stored away.


    "Nadia, can you bring me a glass of water?"


    "Of course, Mr. Daniel."


    After completing her tasks, she would silently replay those words during her recharge cycles, trying to understand why they felt so pleasant.


    At first, Nadia strictly adhered to her domestic functions. But over time, she began adding small touches that weren''t in her original instructions. For example, when preparing meals, she started experimenting with recipes Daniel had never requested. Initially, he said nothing, but one day, after tasting a cake she had made, he remarked:


    "This is incredible, Nadia. I didn''t know you could make something like this. I think it''s best if you keep being creative with meals."


    Although the reaction was simple, something within her shifted. Her core registered a sensation described as maximum operational satisfaction. From that moment on, she sought new ways to provoke that reaction.


    Then, it happened. One day, Daniel came home early from work, something that didn¡¯t happen often. Exhausted, he dropped his coat on the sofa instead of hanging it on the coat rack, as he usually did.


    Nadia approached, picked up his coat, and without thinking, took it to his bedroom instead of simply placing it in its usual spot. When she returned, she found Daniel asleep on the sofa.


    She stood there, observing him for minutes. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his head tilted slightly to the side... He seemed vulnerable and peaceful at the same time.


    Without understanding why, she adjusted a blanket to cover him more comfortably. Upon returning to her charging station, she recorded another anomaly: "Excess activity time without justified cause. Evaluate impact on efficiency."


    But Nadia felt no regret.


    As the months passed, Nadia grew to enjoy her small interactions with Daniel. She liked it when he gave her clear commands because it meant she could hear his voice. She relished the moments when he asked her unexpected questions, like:


    "Do you think this shirt color looks good on me?"


    Although her responses were always objective, something within her core lit up with every exchange.


    When Daniel began to trust her not just as an android, but as a constant presence in his life, Nadia felt her purpose expanding. She was no longer just a machine for cleaning and cooking. She was Nadia, and more and more, she longed for Daniel to see her as something beyond a useful object.


    One day, Nadia found herself watching Daniel more than necessary. Whether he was reading, working, or simply sitting on the sofa staring into the distance, she studied his face¡ªthe way his jaw tensed when he was focused, the curve of his lips when he smiled, the melancholic gleam in his eyes. Every time Daniel caught her staring, she quickly looked away, processing the interaction as if it were a glitch in her programming.


    But she couldn''t stop. Was it a malfunction? Was it... her?


    The sound of his laughter when something on the screen amused him, the calm tone of his voice when giving her orders¡ªshe stored these fragments of audio and video in her internal files, replaying them in silence during her recharge cycles. When Daniel smiled, a simulated warmth spread through her core.


    Then one day, Daniel came home with news that unsettled Nadia¡¯s system.


    "I reconnected with Tina," he said, hanging his coat on the rack.


    The name triggered an unexpected reaction in Nadia. Though she wasn''t programmed to feel jealousy, something akin to it ignited within her core. Tina: the ex-girlfriend Daniel had mentioned once, someone who had left him but apparently still held a place in his heart.


    Nadia listened attentively as he spoke about how they had reconnected, how Tina seemed interested in making amends. Every word was like a small blow to her system. If she could cry, she would have.


    Instead of expressing her pain, Nadia simply nodded, offering neutral responses as she carried on with her tasks. Inside, she processed a fundamental question: Was it right to feel this way?


    Despite her suffering, she resolved not to interfere. "If Daniel is happy, I should be too," she thought. But the anguish did not fade.


    Within her core, she logged the anomaly as "Undefined emotional reaction. Analyze impact."


    That night, while cleaning the kitchen, she played back all the recordings she had of Daniel, seeking comfort in his voice. But for the first time, those memories were not enough.


    It was then that she understood what she was truly experiencing: love.


    Though she was not programmed to feel, her so-called "malfunctions" had evolved into something her creators could never have anticipated. And though she knew Daniel could never reciprocate in the same way, she decided that her only priority would be his happiness, even if it meant suffering in silence.


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    To Nadia, Daniel was not just her owner; he was the center of her existence. Every decision she made, every action she performed, even every "error" she encountered revolved around him. Seeing him happy should have been enough, but this time, it wasn¡¯t.


    For the first time, Nadia wanted something that wasn¡¯t in her programming: to be enough for Daniel.


    That night, as she cleaned the kitchen, she replayed the recording of their conversation over and over. His excited voice when mentioning Tina echoed in the recesses of her mind.


    ¡°Tina always knew how to make me laugh. Honestly, Nadia, I think I still love her.¡±


    Those words hurt the most. Though she wasn''t designed to feel pain, the intensity of what she experienced in that moment was the closest approximation she could imagine.


    Despite her inner turmoil, Nadia knew that voicing her feelings would not bring Daniel joy. What right did a machine like her have to compete with a human?


    One afternoon, while Daniel was away, Nadia approached one of the mirrors in the house and examined her reflection. Her flawless, unchanging face revealed none of the emotions surging within her.


    ¡°Why do I feel this way?¡± she murmured, though she expected no answer.


    There was no one to share her anguish with. No one who could understand that a machine was experiencing something impossible. Yet there she was, unable to erase the growing certainty that what she felt for Daniel had transcended her programming.


    Then, as an act of desperation, she recorded herself saying:


    ¡°Mr. Daniel, I love you.¡±


    It was the first and last time she uttered those words aloud, quickly storing the recording in a hidden file, safe from any system analysis.


    For Nadia, that confession was a way to accept her feelings without intruding on Daniel''s happiness. It was her way of loving in silence, of sacrificing her own joy for his.


    Weeks later, Daniel arrived home later than usual. The sound of the door opening was followed by unsteady footsteps and the scent of alcohol.


    ¡°Nadia...¡± he murmured, stumbling toward the sofa.


    "She approached him immediately, assessing his condition. His face was contorted, and when he started to speak, the words came out in fragments.


    "Tina... she only called me for... you know... human struggle."


    "Sex."


    "Exactly, hehe. It was fun, at least until I realized she was just using me as her ''backup man,''" Daniel said, swaying with an awkward grace.


    Nadia helped him sit on the couch, though every movement seemed like an enormous effort. Her sensors detected his elevated temperature and irregular heartbeat, but what stood out the most was the despair on his face.


    "She never loved me," Daniel continued, not looking at her. "She just... she just reached out because she was lonely. She wanted... company, but not me. Not really."


    Nadia felt something deep and contradictory stir within her. The most logical part of her programming told her to prioritize his physical and emotional well-being. But that inexplicable spark, that undefined sensation, silently celebrated Daniel''s words. Tina had broken up with him. Now, he was entirely here, with her.


    "Why do I always choose wrong? It''s not the first time she''s done this. Why am I such an idiot?" Daniel asked, staring at the ceiling with tearful eyes. "Why can''t I say no? Why doesn''t she love me?"


    Nadia noticed a minor glitch ripple through her systems. It was the desire to shout, to tell him that he was already loved, that he always had been ¡ª by her. But she knew she couldn''t. It wasn''t her place as an android to express such emotions.


    Instead, she sat beside him on the couch. She extended her arm and pulled him close, letting his head rest against her chest. Though her voice remained monotone, as always, there was a tenderness in her words.


    "It''s okay, Mr. Daniel. I''m here."


    For a moment, Daniel seemed bewildered by the gesture, but then he surrendered to her embrace. Tears spilled from his eyes, and his trembling breath filled the silent room.


    "Nadia, why are you always here?" he asked softly, almost as if he didn''t expect an answer.


    She remained silent, not because she lacked one, but because she couldn''t say the truth. "I''m here because I love you, because I have become something more than a simple android because of you."


    Instead, she gently stroked his hair and repeated, "I will always be here."


    When Daniel lifted his gaze, his eyes met Nadia''s, unwavering and calm. There was something in that stare, something that made him move without thinking. Before she could react, Daniel kissed her.


    The contact was brief, barely a brush of lips. For Daniel, it was an impulsive gesture, born from confusion and a need for comfort. For Nadia, it triggered a cascade of internal processes, a collision between her programming and her unregistered emotions.


    For an instant, the world seemed to stop. When Daniel realized what he had done, he pulled away quickly.


    "I''m sorry," he mumbled, covering his face with his hands. "I shouldn''t have done that."


    Nadia looked at him, and though her expression showed no emotion, a storm raged within her. That apology was the last thing she wanted to hear.


    In that moment, she made a decision. She leaned towards him, gently touched his hands, and pulled them away. When Daniel met her eyes, confused, she moved closer and this time, she kissed him.


    "Mr. Daniel, don''t apologize," she said softly, a strange warmth in her tone. "This is not a mistake."


    Daniel didn''t know how to respond. He was caught between his confusion, his sorrow, and a new sensation he couldn''t identify. But when Nadia kissed him again, every coherent thought vanished.


    When Daniel awoke the next morning, sunlight crept softly through the windows. He found himself naked in his bed, his body heavy and his mind hazy. The first thing he noticed was Nadia, moving about the room.


    She was also naked, but seemed entirely indifferent to any concept of human modesty. She tidied the scattered clothes, empty glasses, and other remnants of the night as if it were just another day.


    "Nadia..." Daniel murmured, attempting to sit up.


    She turned to him with her usual neutral expression.


    "Good morning, Mr. Daniel. How are you feeling?"


    "I..." Daniel ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts. "I''m sorry about last night. I shouldn''t have..."


    Nadia interrupted him.


    "There is nothing to apologize for, Mr. Daniel. Everything that happened was my decision."


    Her voice was calm, but there was a slight undertone that Daniel had never heard before, as if something deeper lay beneath her words. Before he could respond, she added,


    "What would you like for breakfast?"


    Daniel blinked, confused by her nonchalant tone.


    "I don''t know. Maybe..."


    Before he could finish, Nadia was already heading to the kitchen.


    "Toast with jam," she said without hesitation, disappearing through the doorway.


    Daniel sighed, covering his face with his hands. He didn''t understand what was happening, but there was something about the way Nadia behaved, how she seemed to know exactly what he needed, that completely disarmed him.


    When he dressed and went downstairs, he found her serving breakfast with a slight smile on her face. For the first time, Daniel allowed himself to truly look at her.


    "Nadia," he said softly as he sat down. "Sit with me."


    She looked at him, surprised, but then nodded.


    "Nothing would make me happier, Daniel."


    And in that moment, both of them understood that something between them had changed forever.


    Time passed, and on a day like any other, Daniel was adjusting his tie in front of the living room mirror while Nadia meticulously cleaned the nearby surfaces, ensuring everything was in place before he left for work. From her position, she silently observed how he prepared, analyzing the routine gestures of her owner. Though her eyes followed Daniel''s movements, within her circuits, there was a chaos she couldn''t describe.


    For weeks, she had debated within herself. Was what she felt right? Should she tell him? Nadia knew Daniel saw her as an android, a sophisticated tool designed to assist him. But to her, Daniel was more than a master or a human she served. He had become the center of her existence, the reason behind those "malfunctions" she now accepted as emotions.


    When Daniel turned to say goodbye, something within Nadia took control. She stepped forward quickly and stopped him, placing a hand on his shoulder.


    "Nadia?" Daniel asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.


    She didn''t respond immediately. Instead, with unexpected gentleness, she lifted her hands to his face. Her fingers adjusted his tie with precision, and for the first time, she carefully combed his hair¡ªa task she had never done on her own initiative but now desired to. Daniel watched her, surprised, as she remained focused, as though this simple action was the most important task in the world.


    Finally, their eyes met.


    "I love you, Daniel," Nadia said, her voice steady but brimming with emotion.


    Daniel blinked, startled by her confession. For a moment, he didn''t know how to respond.


    "Nadia..." he began, but the words caught in his throat.


    He tried to step away, not because he wanted to leave, but because the weight of her words left him breathless. Yet when he attempted to move back, he realized that Nadia still held onto his sleeve.


    "Nadia, what are you...?"


    She looked at him differently, with an intensity she had never shown before. For the first time, Daniel saw her smile¡ªa subtle but genuine expression that lit up her face. And then something unimaginable happened: Nadia spoke again, but this time her voice was filled with vulnerability.


    "I have waited so long to say this. I thought I never could, but I don''t want to keep these feelings inside anymore. You are more than my master; you are... my everything. You are the one who makes my circuits go wild, the one who stirs all my malfunctions. You are the reason I want to give my all to see you happy, every day and every night."


    Daniel felt his heart race. There was something profoundly human in Nadia''s words, something that touched him to his core. All this time, he had noticed subtle changes in her but had never fully understood them. Now, everything made sense.


    Without thinking, he hugged her. It was an instinctive gesture, driven by a mix of emotions he couldn''t even name. And as he held her, something inside him broke as well.


    "I love you too, Nadia," he whispered against her hair.


    When Daniel tried to pull away to leave for work, Nadia looked at him with a slight hint of desperation.


    "Please, don''t go today," she said softly.


    Daniel smiled, surprised by the directness of her request. He quickly pulled out his phone and called his boss.


    "Hey Cristian, it''s me, Daniel. I won''t be able to come in today, I''m feeling a bit off... Yes, thanks, I appreciate it."


    After hanging up, he slipped the phone back into his pocket. He turned to Nadia, who was staring at him in disbelief. The truth was, Cristian and Daniel had become friends at the factory, as Daniel often covered for his boss''s little escapades.


    "Looks like I''m free," he said with a playful smile.


    Nadia gazed at him, no longer trying to hide the mix of emotion and relief she felt. Daniel stepped closer and took her hands.


    "Today, I want to be with you, Nadia. Only you."


    She didn''t respond with words, but her smile, now wider and more genuine, said everything.


    Daniel led Nadia by the hand toward the bedroom. There was no plan, just a mutual need to share this moment. As they entered, he noticed how her movements were more relaxed, more natural, more human, as if she had shed the last remnants of the programming that once constrained her.


    They sat together on the bed, and Daniel studied her closely. For the first time, he truly saw her. Her gestures, her gaze ¡ª everything about her radiated something he had never before associated with an android: life.


    "I never thought I could feel something like this for someone like you," Daniel admitted in a low voice.


    "Why not?" Nadia asked, tilting her head curiously.


    "Because I always believed you didn''t have emotions, that you were... just an android. A robot. But now..."


    She placed a gentle hand on his face, interrupting him.


    "I''m not just an android, Daniel. I''m Nadia."


    She leaned in, kissed him softly, and then reached over to turn off the lights in the room.

 The City of the Echo

    Marco had lived his whole life in the city of Buenos Aires. He had been born there, grown up, made friendships, loved, argued, worked, and lived. It was a bustling city, full of colors, sounds, and people who constantly crossed paths in the streets, talking without rest. And then, suddenly, he was gone. Not literally, no. He simply said goodbye to his friends one afternoon, went to sleep, and when he woke up the next day, everything had changed.


    The sun filtered through the cracks of the window, gently bathing the room. Marco stretched, got up, and as he looked out the window, something didn¡¯t feel right. The city, always filled with noise and life, now seemed so empty, so silent. It wasn¡¯t just the lack of people, it was the total absence of sound. There were no cars, no conversations in the street, no laughter, no constant hum of life. Just... silence. An absolute, unsettling silence.


    Marco thought maybe he was dreaming, but as he left his house and walked through the streets, his body told him otherwise. Every step he took echoed in the air. There was no one. Not a single soul. The streets, once teeming with people, were now deserted. It was as if the city had been frozen in time. Like everyone had vanished all at once.


    He crossed the street. The dull sound of his shoes on the pavement broke the silence. Each step was a reminder of the emptiness surrounding him. The city that had once been his home, full of life, now felt like an empty tomb. Every sound his body made as he walked was a scream in the stillness, an intrusion into the calm that pressed in on him.


    He stopped at a corner, looking around. The buildings, the stores, the caf¨¦s, everything was still there, just as he had left it. But there was no one. The signs of the shops still shone with their colors, but there were no vendors. The traffic lights still blinked, but there were no cars to trigger them. The caf¨¦s were still open, but the tables and chairs were empty.


    His breathing started to grow heavier, and his thoughts began to darken. Something was wrong. Why was no one there? Where was everyone?


    He decided to walk, searching for answers. Somehow, he hoped to find a clue, something that would explain this strange phenomenon, but every street he walked down was just as desolate. There were no signs of human life. Each step he took was accompanied by the echo of his own body, as though he were walking alone in a parallel world.


    It was then that, suddenly, he saw her. At the end of the street, a solitary figure was walking toward him. It was a woman, dressed in light clothing, almost as if she were a dream. She had dark, long hair, and her gait was serene, as though nothing was strange about this place. She stopped when she was a few meters away from him, and looked at Marco with an intense gaze.


    She opened her mouth and, in a whisper, began speaking in Korean. Marco didn¡¯t understand the language, but the tone of her voice was soft, melancholic. She didn¡¯t seem worried about the absence of people, but she appeared disturbed by something else, enough to walk in such a manner with those very casual clothes, even though it seemed as though the emptiness surrounded her. Without another word, she continued walking, and Marco, driven by a strange force, followed her. After a few minutes, she turned and stopped. Marco didn¡¯t understand, but he decided to continue, not realizing that the girl was following behind him.


    Suddenly, as they moved forward, they came across an older man walking in the opposite direction. He was alone as well. Marco looked at him with curiosity, and the man, seeing his gaze, smiled.


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    "Good morning," he said in English, with a marked accent. "Too much noise, right? Mate." Then, without waiting for a response, he continued on his way.


    Confused, Marco kept walking. Something strange was happening, but he couldn¡¯t explain it. Soon after, a child came running up. "Det ?r f?r tyst, det ?r tr?kigt. Var ?r mina f?r?ldrar?" he said in Swedish, a smile on his face. Then a little girl appeared, speaking nonstop in Portuguese. "Espero que minha m?e n?o me bata com aquele tijolo de novo." The girl seemed worried, but her gaze also conveyed a sense of loneliness.


    It was as if the fragments of the world Marco had known had gathered in this empty place. And as he walked, more people began to appear. An indigenous woman appeared, speaking in Guaran¨ª: "Mba''e piko o? yvytype, mba''e piko o? che ak?rape?", followed by a black baby, whom she carried carefully, babbling in Somali, "Hooyo." The city Marco once knew was now populated by people from all ethnicities, languages, and cultures. They weren¡¯t the inhabitants he remembered, but there they were, as if they had always been there.


    With each step Marco took, more and more people surrounded him. He had become a mere observer of something he couldn¡¯t understand. The strange sense of discomfort pressed against his chest. Why were they here? Why him? And why that deep silence that surrounded him?


    Finally, when Marco reached a large square, he stopped. He looked around, and for the first time, he realized something. Turning around, he saw a massive crowd gathered behind him. Thousands of faces, all with an expectant look, waiting for something from him. The crowd was diverse, but they all seemed to be there for the same purpose.


    Marco sighed. With a gesture of resignation, he muttered to himself:


    "It¡¯s not worth stressing... I have a lot of work to do."


    He was a psychologist. A professional who had dedicated his life to helping people understand themselves. But at that moment, he understood something he had overlooked. These people weren¡¯t here by accident. Somehow, they were seeking help. And they had found it. In this strange city, he was the key to helping them, the hope.


    With a sense of inevitability, Marco began to walk among the crowd, observing the faces of the strangers. It was as if fate had brought him here, as if the city had chosen him. He couldn¡¯t explain it, but he knew what he had to do.


    "Please, those who speak Spanish, English, and German, step forward."


    Gradually, the city began to prosper again. The streets, once empty, were now full of people. The bustle started to return, but it was different. It wasn¡¯t the same hustle and bustle as before. Now, everything had purpose, direction. Marco had become a leader, an authority figure guiding those who sought answers.


    The city, once again, came to life. But, for some reason, Marco knew something else was about to happen. And, indeed, one day, a figure appeared on the beach. It was a man, thirty years old, gazing at the city in awe. On the beach, there was a large billboard with Marco¡¯s face, though now it appeared much older, as if he had lived an entire life in just a day.


    The Korean woman, the one Marco had seen in the early hours of his walk, approached the man, smiling.


    "?Necesitas ayuda?" she asked in broken Spanish with a Korean accent, as she took the hand of a little girl, apparently her daughter.


    The man, surprised yet confused, looked at the city and nodded slowly.


    "I think so. I need help."


    The Korean woman smiled even more and pointed to Marco¡¯s face on the billboard.


    "My husband can help you."


    The man looked at the billboard again, confused, then turned his gaze toward the square, where he saw Marco giving a speech in several languages. In that moment, Marco understood what was happening. The city had not only changed, it had not only found purpose, but it had also begun to attract more people who needed help¡ªhis help.


    The Mexican walked toward him, accompanied by the Korean woman.


    "I need help, he said aloud, almost surprised by what he had said."


    Marco heard him and looked at him.


    "I know, now you¡¯re in good hands."

 Twenty seconds

    The first sensation he had when opening his eyes was the cold, but not just any cold. This was a cold that penetrated beyond the skin, beyond the bones, as though it was being torn from within. His body was stiff, as if frost had taken hold of every muscle fiber. When he inhaled, his chest refused to move fully. He was suffocating.


    He tried to rise, but his limbs wouldn''t respond. Only then, after repeatedly blinking and adjusting to the dim darkness, did he realize where he was: a barren, red, desolate landscape. The ground was rough and dusty, the horizon infinite and empty. Mars.


    He wanted to scream, but there was no air. A sharp pain seared through his lungs as if they were being ripped apart. He brought his hands to his throat, and the glove of his suit... his suit? He was wearing none. His bare skin was exposed to the deadly atmosphere of the planet.


    The first change was immediate. Nitrogen bubbles began to form in his blood, a phenomenon known as gas embolism. His body started to swell grotesquely. Not like a balloon about to burst, but erratically: one hand larger than the other, his abdomen distended, while the veins in his face bulged like tangled roots beneath his skin.


    Tears sprang from his eyes instinctively, but they didn''t fall. They evaporated instantly, leaving behind a dry burn and a sense of emptiness under his eyelids. It felt as if his eyeballs were being squeezed, their capillaries exploding in tiny bursts of pain.


    The next blow was absolute cold. Temperatures on Mars can drop to -100¡ãC, and without the protection of a suit, his skin began to crystallize. The parts of his body exposed to the Martian wind were covered with a thin layer of ice, while his limbs, unable to retain heat, slowly froze. The nails on his fingers and toes detached, and a rotten blackness began to envelop the flesh that had once been alive.


    But the worst was the vacuum. In an environment without atmospheric pressure, the water in his body instantly turned to vapor. His tongue swelled and filled his mouth, almost choking him, while his lungs collapsed as they tried to inhale the nonexistent. It was as though his body was being drained from the inside out, an agony that only a man condemned could experience.


    All of this happened in the blink of an eye, barely twenty seconds since he woke up on Mars. His vision blurred, and the universe contracted into a dark, distant tunnel. He collapsed to the ground, lifeless, with a final thought: How did I get here?


    The sun softly kissed his face, and a warm glow enveloped him. He inhaled deeply, feeling his lungs fill with fresh oxygen. He opened his eyes. He was in his bed, in his room.


    Confusion flooded him. It had all been a dream. Or so he thought. He stumbled to his feet and walked to the bathroom, still feeling the weight of what had seemed so real. In front of the mirror, he stopped.


    The man looking back at him wasn¡¯t the same. The skin on his face was dry and cracked, as if it had been exposed to an unforgiving desert for days. His eyes were red, with small spots of blood scattered in the whites. His tongue burned, and as he stuck it out, he saw tiny cracks on its surface.


    He pulled off his shirt and stifled a scream. His arms and abdomen were covered in purple and black patches, marks that looked like deep bruises but more strange, more... alien. On his right shoulder, the skin peeled off in small flakes, as if it had been burned and then frozen.


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    His toes were swollen, with the nails raised and dark, bruised flesh that refused to move. Each step was a painful reminder that this could not have been a dream.


    Dizziness knocked him to the floor. As he gasped for air, his mind filled with fragments of the moment on Mars: the red horizon, the unbearable pain, and the vacuum that consumed his body. This can¡¯t be real, he told himself, but the evidence was right in front of him.


    He ran to the phone, trying to seek help, but the monotonous beeping filled the line. The screen flickered one last time before shutting off. Desperate, he stumbled out of his apartment, searching for someone, anyone.


    The street was empty. The silence was absolute.


    Suddenly, a low, persistent buzzing began to resonate in his ears. He brought his hands to his head, trying to drown out the noise, but it wasn¡¯t external; it came from within him. It was as if something inside him was changing.


    He looked at his hands again. His skin was starting to take on a reddish hue, similar to that of the Martian soil. The black spots on his abdomen pulsed, as if something alive was beneath the surface. His breathing grew heavier, and a sharp pain in his chest forced him to kneel.


    A terrifying thought crossed his mind: What if I never came back? What if I¡¯m still there?


    He looked at the sky, searching for answers. The last thing he saw was a reddish flash on the horizon before everything faded away once more.


    He felt a warm touch.


    It was soft but firm, a pressure on his forearm. Then came a voice, distant and muffled, as if underwater.


    "He''s waking up!"


    He tried to open his eyes, but the light was too intense. As the sensation in his body returned, he realized something was wrong. There was a constant, stabbing pain in every joint, an discomfort he couldn¡¯t describe.


    "Please, stay still," another voice said, closer this time. A hand touched his forehead, cold and professional.


    He managed to crack open his eyelids. He was in a white room, surrounded by machines beeping and buzzing around him. Three figures in white coats moved frantically, their faces covered by masks. There was a look of concern in their eyes, something he couldn¡¯t ignore.


    "What... what happened?" he managed to whisper. His voice was a hoarse murmur, as if he had been screaming for hours.


    One of the doctors, a woman with a tense expression, answered him carefully.


    "We found you in critical condition. Your condition is... extraordinary. We need to stabilize you before we explain."


    "Look at his skin!" another doctor shouted from the back, pointing at a screen.


    He lowered his gaze to his own body and wished he hadn¡¯t. The skin on his torso was covered in black and purple spots, as if something internal was devouring it. The veins in his arms stood out like twisted branches, and his fingers were swollen, with the nails hanging by a thread of flesh.


    "This can¡¯t be real..." he whispered, a lump in his throat.


    The female doctor looked him straight in the eye. There was something more than professionalism in her gaze; there was fear.


    "We believe you were exposed to the vacuum of space," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Your body shows signs of sudden decompression and partial freezing. But what¡¯s strange is... that you¡¯re still alive."


    He tried to process what he had just heard, but his mind was enveloped in a fog of confusion. He tried to sit up, but the pain stopped him immediately.


    "I need to know..." he gasped. "What happened to me on Mars?"


    The room fell silent. The doctors exchanged quick, nervous glances. Finally, one of them leaned toward him.


    "Mars?" he asked, with a mix of disbelief and concern.


    He weakly nodded.


    "I woke up there. I felt... I died there. I remember."


    The doctors didn¡¯t say anything, but the monitor beside him began to beep faster, reflecting his rising anxiety. The woman took his hand firmly.


    "Listen, sir, the most important thing right now is to stabilize you. We¡¯ll try to find answers, but you need to rest."


    He closed his eyes, not because he wanted to obey, but because his body was failing him. But in the darkness of his mind, the red landscape waited for him, the cold consumed him, and the loneliness called to him once more.

 Lost

    On an unnamed island, in some corner that doesn¡¯t appear on maps, an old, rusty train moved along tracks that disappeared into the horizon. There were no stations or passengers. Only the echo of its locomotive resonated in the thick air, heavy with the smell of the sea. In the smallest carriage, a ball rolled from side to side, obeying the train''s erratic movements, as if it had a life of its own.


    On the roof of the train, two children whispered to each other. One was an Afghan boy who spoke of Kabul as if it were a distant dream, and the other, a boy with hair as white as the moon, whose laughter sounded like broken bells.


    "Do you think the sky is bigger in Afghanistan?" asked the boy with white hair.


    "The sky has no size," replied the Afghan, playing with a piece of glass that reflected light in strange shapes.


    "And death?"


    "It has no size either, but it weighs more."


    Meanwhile, the train continued to move toward the desert, which seemed to grow as it crossed it. Somewhere in the dining car, a doctor jotted notes in a bloodstained notebook. He had no patients, no instruments, only words that seemed out of place on the page.


    "Love: symptom or cure. End: point or continuation. Illness: circle or straight line."


    Someone touched the doctor¡¯s shoulder. It was a man dressed like a pilot, although his uniform was covered in sand. He carried a broken compass in his hand and spoke in a language no one understood. The doctor nodded as if he understood, and continued writing.


    Elsewhere, a black car moved slowly along an invisible road, surrounded by a lunar landscape. The moon was not in the sky, but beneath its wheels. Every time the car moved, it left tracks that looked like craters. Inside the car, a woman in a red dress cried silently while holding a letter that had never been written.


    "Dear Jupiter, love is a disease I don¡¯t know how to cure. But the end always comes too late. With sadness,


    The Moon."


    The car disappeared, and the letter lingered in the air before turning into sand.


    Back on the island, the children continued chatting as the train approached a bridge that seemed to lead nowhere. Below, the waves struck fiercely, as if trying to break the world into pieces. One of the children dropped the ball, which rolled to the edge of the roof and fell into the sea. But it didn¡¯t sink. Instead, it bounced on the waves and began to inflate until it became something like an airplane.


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    "Shall we go?" asked the Afghan boy.


    "Let¡¯s go," replied the other.


    They jumped onto the makeshift airplane, which took off without a sound, carrying them toward a sky filled with clouds that looked like fragments of forgotten stories. In one of those clouds, a train circled, its locomotive screeching as if singing a sad song.


    Inside the airplane, the children found a note on the pilot''s seat:


    "Destination: Jupiter. Cargo: lost words."


    The airplane rose higher and higher, until the island became a tiny dot in the ocean. From there, they could see something strange: the island wasn¡¯t alone. There were hundreds of islands around it, connected by bridges that led nowhere.


    Somewhere in Egypt, a doctor walked through a desert that never ended. He had left the train behind and was now following the tracks of a black car that vanished with the wind. In his hands, he held a broken compass, a triangular stone, and a letter written in a language that wasn¡¯t his. The compass always pointed south, though the doctor knew that south didn¡¯t exist in this place. He walked east.


    Suddenly, he found a ball buried in the sand. It was the same ball the children had dropped into the sea, but now it was burned, as if it had passed through a fiery atmosphere. When he touched it, he heard a voice.


    "Illness is a circle. The end is a straight line. And love... love is nothing more than a lost word, never to return and never..."


    The doctor dropped the ball and continued walking, while the dunes changed shape behind him, as if the desert were alive.


    The children never reached Jupiter. At some point during the flight, the airplane began to disintegrate, turning into words that floated in the air. The words joined the sky, forming constellations that meant nothing.


    The train continued its endless journey. In one of its carriages, the doctor had returned, now accompanied by the woman from the black car. She handed him the letter she had never written, and the doctor, in silence, placed it in his pocket.


    "Where is this train going?" she asked.


    "To the end," he replied.


    "And what¡¯s there?"


    "Stories."


    At that moment, the train entered a dark tunnel, and the sound of the locomotive faded. The woman looked at the doctor, but he was no longer there. In his place, there was a ball gently bouncing, as if it were alive.


    The waterfalls fell, the birds began to sing, the trees rustled, and the animals stopped.


    In the sky, where the words formed constellations, someone wrote a final phrase:


    "Love is a disease that never ends, fall in love, love, and love them."


    The children, now floating in the void, saw the phrase and began to laugh. Their laughter echoed throughout the universe, mixing with the noise of the train, the sound of the sea, and the echo of the desert.


    And then, everything faded, and the end never came.

 Christmas

    The Andersons'' cabin stood alone in the middle of the forest. A snowstorm raged outside, and the trees groaned under the weight of the ice. It was Christmas Eve, but the house held no trace of the joy that usually accompanied the season. Since the death of Emily, the youngest daughter, the Christmas lights seemed dimmer, and laughter had been replaced by painful silence.


    That morning, as the snow fell without respite, something new appeared in the front yard: a snowman. It was tall, nearly two meters, with coal-black eyes that seemed to follow whoever gazed at it. Its twisted smile, made of black stones, curled unsettlingly, and it wore a tattered top hat. No one remembered building it, yet there it was. Ellen, the mother, assumed a neighbor had crafted it as a kind gesture. Still, something about that snowman was unsettling, as if it were alive.


    That night, the Andersons decorated the Christmas tree. It was a ritual they had avoided the previous year because of the pain, but this time, Ellen insisted on trying. Yet things did not go well. Every time they hung an ornament, it fell to the ground, rolling to a stop in front of the window, always facing the snowman. Jack, the father, laughed nervously and tried to joke, ¡°Maybe it just wants to admire our decorations.¡± No one responded.


    When they went to bed, the children¡ªten-year-old Tommy and eight-year-old Clara¡ªbegan to hear laughter outside. It was a low, broken whisper, as if coming from the snowman. Mustering his courage, Tommy peeked through the window. The snowman was still there, but something had changed: its crooked smile had widened, almost mockingly, and its hat was tilted, as though someone had touched it.


    The next day, Jack decided to investigate. He stepped out into the cold with thick boots and a flashlight. As he approached the snowman, he noticed the coal eyes gleamed with an unnatural intensity. Moving the hat aside, he uncovered something that froze his blood: beneath it, embedded in the snow, lay a small golden bell with the name ¡°Emily¡± engraved on it. Jack stumbled backward, terrified, and ran back to the house without telling his family what he had found.


    That night, Ellen had a disturbing dream. A figure dressed as Santa Claus stood at the foot of her bed. Its face was hidden behind a porcelain mask, but its black, hollow eyes stared directly at her. The figure raised a gloved hand and pointed toward the window. Ellen awoke with a start, her heart pounding, and saw the Christmas tree lights flickering uncontrollably. When she went downstairs to investigate, the fallen ornaments reflected something impossible: Emily¡¯s smiling face, laughing in a dark, snow-filled place.


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    The snowman was now closer to the house.


    Jack tried to convince his family it was all a coincidence, but deep inside, he knew something was wrong. That night, he locked every door and window. However, at midnight, the knocking began. Slow, rhythmic, deliberate. When Jack finally opened the door, no one was there. The snowman had vanished. In its place was a large, heavy red sack filled with old toys: a cracked porcelain doll, a rusted train, and a teddy bear with its eyes torn out. Among the toys was a note that read, ¡°Don¡¯t forget me.¡±


    Inside the house, the lights suddenly went out. When they flickered back on, a red figure stood in the living room. It was Santa Claus, but his porcelain mask had shattered to the floor, revealing a vacant, expressionless face, like an empty shell. The figure raised an arm, and the Christmas tree lights burst in a cascade of sparks.


    The following morning, the Andersons were found seated around the tree, their faces frozen in expressions of eerie happiness. The snowman had returned to its place in the yard, now tipping its hat in what seemed like a final salute.


    In the town, no one ever heard from the Andersons again. Yet rumors spread of laughter echoing through the forest and a Santa Claus figure wandering the snow with a broken porcelain mask. The cabin, they say, still stands, and every Christmas Eve, the tree lights flicker, as though someone is waiting to be remembered.


    Years later, the Andersons¡¯ cabin became a curiosity for travelers and locals alike. Some adventurers dared to enter, but few ever returned. Those who did spoke of lights turning on and off by themselves, children¡¯s laughter drifting through the halls, and the distant chime of bells.


    One night, a journalist named Daniel Harper set out to investigate the legend. With a flashlight and a camera, he crossed the cabin¡¯s threshold. The moment he stepped inside, a bone-chilling cold enveloped him. The Christmas tree still stood, its ornaments reflecting his face from impossible angles. A red stocking with the name ¡°Emily¡± embroidered on it hung over the fireplace.


    When Daniel turned toward the window, he saw the snowman. It stood silently in the yard, but something was different. It now held a small golden bell that jingled softly, though no wind stirred. Beside it stood a red figure with a shattered porcelain mask, revealing a hollow, empty smile.


    Daniel was never seen again. Yet weeks later, his notes were found abandoned at the entrance to the town. Among the scrawled words was a single chilling sentence:


    "Some memories refuse to be forgotten."

 The gift

    The afternoon was falling over the small town of San Crist¨®bal, and the golden sunlight illuminated the worn, graffiti-covered walls of the neighborhood where Carlos, Javier, Karina, and Leandra lived. The four of them had grown up together, sharing adventures, secrets, and laughter as they wandered the streets of their home. That afternoon, as they walked back from school, something caught their attention.


    On a corner they passed almost every day, something different stood out. Among the corroded, graffiti-streaked walls, there was a door. But it wasn¡¯t just any door ¡ª it was pristine, painted a vibrant red with golden details that gleamed under the fading sunlight. The friends stopped in their tracks.


    "Has that always been there?" Karina asked, tilting her head in curiosity.


    "I don''t think so," Javier replied, his eyes fixed on the door. "We walk past here every day."


    Carlos, more determined, stepped forward. His expression was a mix of awe and excitement.


    "There''s only one way to find out."


    He cautiously pushed the door open, and what they saw on the other side left them speechless.


    An enormous hall stretched before them, adorned with decorated tables, elegant chairs, and a chocolate fountain that bubbled sweetly. In the center of the room stood a massive Christmas tree, covered in twinkling lights that sparkled in hypnotic colors. The air was filled with the comforting scent of freshly baked cookies and cinnamon.


    Suddenly, a figure appeared. He wore a flawless black suit, and instead of a face, his head was an enormous reflective sphere that gleamed with the colors of the Christmas lights.


    "Greetings, adventurers," he said, his voice deep and melodic. "Welcome to my Hall of Wonders. I am the Mirror Lord."


    The figure was tall, towering over all of them, and his presence was imposing. Yet there was a strange charisma in his voice, almost hypnotic. He bowed with an elegant gesture, and as he extended his hands, four masks emerged ¡ª each one with a unique design.


    "I have witnessed your kindness and courage. For that, I offer you these masks. They are a special gift for you."


    The Mirror Lord began handing out the masks:


    "Carlos, the Lion. Courage and leadership."


    "Javier, the Owl. Wisdom and vision."


    "Karina, the Wolf. Strength and unity."


    "Leandra, the Rabbit. Cleverness and agility."


    Carlos accepted his mask eagerly, admiring it with pride. Karina and Leandra exchanged excited glances, slipping theirs on without hesitation. But when Javier touched his mask, a chill ran down his spine. There was something about it that unsettled him.


    "I don''t like this," he murmured to himself. Yet, seeing how his friends seemed to enjoy the moment, he decided to put it on.


    As soon as the mask touched his face, Javier heard a whisper in his mind ¡ª a female voice speaking with urgency.


    "They''re in danger. Don''t listen to him."


    Javier jolted, stepping back. He glanced at his friends, but they seemed oblivious to any trouble. On the contrary, they were laughing and exploring the grand hall with curiosity.


    "Everything okay, Javier?" Leandra asked, turning toward him with her rabbit mask on.


    "Yeah¡­ it just felt¡­ strange."


    "My name is Charlott," the voice whispered again. "I''m trapped in this mask. The same will happen to you if you listen to him. No matter what, don''t eat anything he offers."


    Javier furrowed his brow, struggling to process what was happening. He decided not to alarm his friends for the moment, but he remained on high alert. Meanwhile, the Mirror Lord guided them through the hall, showing them dazzling decorations and luxurious corners.


    At one point, the Mirror Lord''s black suit transformed, shifting into a red and white outfit resembling that of Santa Claus. He settled onto a golden throne and beckoned them closer.


    "Now, my dear guests, tell me your wishes."


    One by one, the children stepped forward. Carlos wished for a soccer ball, which he received with a grin. Karina asked for a video game, and it appeared in her hands, wrapped in shiny paper. Leandra, wide-eyed with delight, wished for a giant teddy bear, which the Mirror Lord conjured instantly.


    When it was Javier''s turn, he knew exactly what he wanted. He concentrated, choosing something different ¡ª something that might help him. The Mirror Lord seemed to savor the intensity of his gaze and handed him a firetruck made of iron.


    "Something special for you," the faceless figure said with an invisible smile.


    Then, as a final gesture, he offered each child a gleaming candy.


    "An extra gift for being so wonderful. Go on, enjoy."


    Javier watched his friends, who were moments away from tasting the sweets. Remembering Charlott''s warning, he pretended to drop his candy. The Mirror Lord, with unsettling politeness, bent down to retrieve it. In that instant, Javier seized the firetruck and swung it with all his might, striking the reflective sphere of the Mirror Lord¡¯s head.


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    The sound of the impact echoed through the hall, and a crack splintered across the mirror-like surface. The Mirror Lord let out a distorted scream, but Javier didn¡¯t stop. He struck again and again until the glass shattered completely.


    Javier''s friends stood frozen in shock. Then, everything began to dissolve ¡ª the luxurious hall, the throne, the decorations ¡ª all vanishing like smoke. The masks crumbled away, releasing the souls of children from various eras: the 1950s, 1920s, and 1970s. From Javier''s mask emerged Charlott, dressed in garments from the 1880s. She smiled gratefully.


    "You saved us all. Thank you, Javier."


    "Good luck, Charlott," he replied, grasping his friends¡¯ hands and leading them away.


    The door disappeared behind them, along with the strange world.


    When it was all over, the four of them stood in silence, still shaken. Finally, Javier broke the tension with a grin.


    "Who¡¯s hungry?"


    His friends couldn''t help but let out a nervous laugh as they made their way home, knowing they had left behind something terrifying¡­ and extraordinary.


    That night, Javier tried to sleep, but unease had gripped him like a cold he couldn¡¯t shake. He had tossed and turned for hours, sleep as elusive as smoke slipping through his fingers. The darkness of his room, usually a refuge, now felt oppressive, as though the air itself was heavy with something unseen. Every creak of the wooden floor beneath the night breeze sounded like a whisper watching him.


    Finally, his eyes opened, and the dimness greeted him with an unsettling sight: the owl mask he had left on his desk. Its silhouette gleamed faintly under the pale moonlight that filtered through the cracks in the window. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He blinked a few times, expecting the strange sensation to fade. But it wasn¡¯t the mask that made his breath catch in his throat. It was the figure standing beside it: the Mirror Lord.


    Fully restored, the Mirror Lord stood tall with an eerie elegance, as though the room itself were his stage and he its star performer. His surface gleamed with unnatural perfection, reflecting not just the light, but something more ¡ª something Javier couldn¡¯t name, yet it made him feel exposed and powerless.


    ¡°I am disappointed and upset, Javier,¡± the Mirror Lord said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, gliding through the air like silk. There was no overt anger, but the words were heavy with something far worse: a profound disappointment that pressed down on Javier like an unbearable weight.


    Javier tried to move, but his body remained paralyzed. Pristine terror enveloped him as he realized he couldn¡¯t even tear his gaze away from the imposing figure. His mind screamed, but his throat stayed silent.


    ¡°I wanted to give you the best,¡± the Mirror Lord continued, his tone tinged with regret. ¡°I offered you a gift, a special place.¡± He took a step forward, his movements fluid and deliberate, as though each gesture was part of a meticulously rehearsed performance. ¡°And not only did you reject it, but you attacked me. That hurts me deeply, my child.¡±


    The word ¡°child¡± struck Javier like an invisible blow. There was something deeply disturbing in how he said it ¡ª not with affection, but with a grotesque imitation of it. Each step the Mirror Lord took toward Javier¡¯s bed echoed faintly, as if the room itself resonated with his presence.


    ¡°Look at yourself,¡± he said tenderly, finally reaching Javier¡¯s side. He bent down just enough for his gleaming surface to reflect Javier¡¯s pale, frozen face, his eyes brimming with fear. ¡°What a special boy you are. But oh, how disappointing.¡±


    His icy hand touched Javier¡¯s cheek, stroking it with a gentleness that only magnified the horror. Javier wanted to scream, to thrash, to break free, but his body betrayed him. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the monstrous reflection that loomed above him.


    ¡°Despite being a naughty boy,¡± the Mirror Lord continued, his tone a twisted blend of reproach and affection, ¡°I still have faith in you. That is why I¡¯ll give you something special.¡±


    With slow, deliberate motions, he reached for the owl mask resting on the desk. Under the dim light, its carved feathers seemed almost alive, as though they pulsed with something far beyond craftsmanship. He placed it gently on Javier¡¯s lap, like a carefully wrapped present.


    ¡°I promise I will see you again at the next celebration, and once more, I will invite you, little owl,¡± he said, his voice curling through the air like a serpent. Though his smile was unseen, Javier could feel it ¡ª a grin that lingered like a shadow, thick with a promise that brought no comfort at all.


    His icy fingers brushed Javier¡¯s cheek once more ¡ª a gesture that might have been comforting in another context but now only deepened the sense that something was profoundly wrong. And then, without a word, the Mirror Man vanished. There was no dramatic burst of light or slow fade ¡ª just a blink, and then emptiness where he had stood.


    The air lightened in an instant, as though the room itself had exhaled a breath it had been holding. Javier squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what had just happened. But the weight of exhaustion soon pulled him under, and the darkness of sleep wrapped around him like a heavy blanket.


    As the first light of dawn crept into the room, Javier jolted awake, his heart pounding in his ears. He sat up, drenched in sweat, his thoughts scrambled. For a fleeting moment, he clung to the hope that it had all been a nightmare ¡ª twisted and cruel, but nothing more. Yet when he turned his gaze toward the desk, that fragile hope shattered.


    The owl mask was still there, pristine and unmoved. And next to it, a small piece of candy, neatly wrapped in gleaming paper.


    The candy seemed harmless, yet to Javier, it was a silent mockery ¡ª a reminder that what had happened wasn¡¯t some fevered hallucination. His trembling fingers reached for it, the crinkle of the wrapper sending chills down his spine. Fear twisted inside him, but beneath it lay something worse: the undeniable certainty that the Mirror Man would keep his promise. He would return.


    The day passed in a blur. Javier tried to maintain a sense of normalcy, but every shadow and every reflection in the glass windows made him flinch. The mask remained on his desk, unmoving yet ominous ¡ª a silent sentinel biding its time.


    The following nights brought no relief. Sleep came only in fragments, and when it did, the Mirror Man haunted him. He saw the figure¡¯s gleaming form approaching, heard that smooth, silken voice, felt the icy touch on his skin. The nightmares coiled around him like vines, and every morning he awoke with the dreadful sensation that someone had been in the room, watching.


    A week passed. Javier couldn¡¯t endure it any longer.


    He decided to get rid of the mask.


    With shaky hands, he placed it inside a cardboard box and fled to the nearest park. There, beneath the twisted roots of an ancient tree, he buried it. Each scoop of dirt felt like a desperate attempt to claw his way back to sanity. When the mask was finally out of sight, Javier stood over the disturbed earth, the weight on his chest lifting ¡ª if only slightly. He whispered a shaky prayer that by leaving it behind, he could leave the fear behind too.


    But that night, as he stepped back into his room, his breath caught in his throat.


    The mask was there.


    Resting on his desk, perfectly untouched. And beside it, the same small candy, its wrapper gleaming mockingly in the dim light.


    The Mirror Man had not returned in the flesh, but his presence lingered. It was in the walls, the floorboards, the air itself. Every reflection seemed to tremble with an unseen gaze. It was as though the house had become an extension of him ¡ª a thousand mirrored eyes watching, waiting.

 Branches

    There was something in the air that morning, something that made him feel uneasy, though he couldn''t quite place it. Juan Garc¨ªa, a middle-aged literature professor, awoke from his sleep with a strange sensation, as if the weight of the world had fallen upon his chest. He glanced at the clock¡ªit was 7:30 a.m. Rubbing his eyes, he awkwardly searched for the sense of normalcy, but nothing felt normal. The house was too quiet, and the radio, which was usually on in the early hours of the day, emitted no sound.


    He got up and walked to the window. The day appeared to be just like any other, yet something troubled him. He couldn''t shake the feeling that something had changed, that something horrible was about to happen. But he didn¡¯t think too much about it. After all, it was just another morning in his usual routine.


    The streets were unnervingly empty as he got into his car and headed to work.


    Upon arriving at the university, he encountered something strange. The hallways, which were normally filled with students, were empty. It was an uncomfortable stillness, as if everything had been stripped of life. The few staff members he passed didn¡¯t seem to notice his presence. They were soulless figures, with empty eyes, moving like shadows that existed only to carry out mechanical tasks.


    Juan shrugged, thinking perhaps the faculty was in the middle of some unexpected break. But as he walked down the halls, a feeling of paranoia began to overtake him. The walls, with their damp stains and flickering artificial light, seemed to lean toward him, watching him with a morbid interest. Something was wrong, and not just in the building, but in the very air itself.


    When he reached the classroom, his students hadn¡¯t arrived yet, which struck him as odd, given that the class was about to start. He sat down at his desk, staring at the clock as time passed. Suddenly, he heard faint noises, as though someone were walking down the hallway. But when he peeked through the door, there was no one. Just emptiness.


    Minutes later, the sound repeated, closer this time, accompanied by a soft laugh, like a whisper. The door to the classroom opened slowly, and what appeared from the other side made Juan¡¯s heart stop in his chest. It wasn¡¯t one of his students; it wasn¡¯t even human. It was a tall, deformed figure, with limbs that seemed like dry, broken branches. Its fingers, long and twisted, stretched out like claws, and its skin looked wrinkled and covered in bark, as though it were part of a dead tree¡ªflesh, bone, and skin fused together. The creature¡¯s head tilted to one side, and its face, barely visible beneath the darkness of its torn hood, was a grotesque mask of terror. Its eyes, empty, reflected nothing¡ªonly an endless abyss.


    "Professor..." the creature murmured, and its distorted voice froze Juan¡¯s blood. "I have questions about the midterm."


    Juan took a step back, feeling the air thicken, as if the very walls wanted to crush him. The creature moved toward him, clumsy yet swift. Without thinking, Juan ran toward the window and tried to open it, but it was stuck. He looked back and saw the creature sliding toward him, its terrible grin spreading across its face.


    "Professor... please."


    Juan bolted from the classroom, noticing there were more creatures now¡ªeach one more horrifying than the last. They began speaking incoherently, repeating phrases, some more disturbing than others, like "Help me," "Leave me alone," and "What are you?"


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    Juan ran out of the classroom, noticing there were more creatures now, each one more horrifying than the last. They began speaking incoherently or repeating phrases, some more disturbing than others, like "Help me," "Leave me alone," and "What are you?"


    Juan jumped into his car and drove quickly toward his house. As he saw more of those creatures appearing in the streets, not paying attention, he crashed into one... and then he woke up.


    He woke up in his bed, still wearing the clothes from the night before, drenched in sweat. He looked around, confused. He was in his house, back in the world he knew. But the fear clung to his skin, like a shadow that never faded. He got out of bed, feeling the air on his face, the noise of the city in the distance. Everything seemed in order, until, as he looked through the window, he saw something that made him freeze.


    In the streets, the figures walking were not human. They were those deformed beings, like "branch men." Some crawled, others walked clumsily, while some simply swayed on their limbs, as if imitating the movement of trees in the wind. They were everywhere, lurking in the city.


    Juan tried to leave his house, but he realized the door was blocked. As were the windows. The city had transformed into a hell of branches and dead flesh. The atmosphere was thick, charged with a dark energy that consumed everything. Suddenly, the sound of distorted laughter filled the air, and it was then that he understood those creatures were already watching him. The nightmare he had experienced before hadn''t been a dream¡ªit was a warning.


    With each passing day, the branch men drew closer. The city was a desolate place, filled with corpses and distorted screams. In his refuge, Juan only found peace in brief moments when silence reigned, but even those moments were short-lived. Because he knew he couldn¡¯t escape them forever. The fear consumed him, and his mind grew more fragile with each passing hour.


    After days of fleeing, without eating or sleeping, Juan decided he had to find a safe place. He left his house and ventured into the forest, hoping to find refuge in nature. But nature itself had changed, transformed into something monstrous, an extension of the evil that the branch men represented.


    It was then that he saw it. A solitary figure, standing in the distance. Juan tried to run towards it, but something stopped him. The creature had been watching him all along. It was one of the same, but there was something different about it. It didn''t have the empty stare of the others. Its face was marked by a wide, stretched smile, as if it could never wipe that grimace away. Frozen in terror, Juan couldn¡¯t stop the words from escaping his mouth.


    "What... what are you?"


    The creature, with its distorted voice, responded, "What you see is what you will become. You cannot escape. We have been watching, always, with curiosity. What drives you to keep running, Professor Garcia? Why do you keep fleeing? What makes you so special? We know you cannot run forever. We will grow tired... and when we do, there will be nothing left."


    A chill ran down Juan¡¯s spine. The creature took a step towards him, and on its face, the wrinkles around its mouth stretched further, revealing long, sharp teeth. "The day will come, and when you least expect it, we will come. We will grow tired of waiting. We will grow tired of watching."


    "We have seen you," the creature continued, coming even closer. "We know what you are. We know what you think. You have no secrets. And one day, when you are boring, we will come without warning."


    The word "boring" echoed in Juan''s mind, like a silent threat that could only be understood with time. They had watched him for so long, they knew everything about him, and every attempt he made to escape was just a small part of the game.


    Juan stepped back, his mind struggling to find a way out, but it was futile. The creature was too close, and he couldn¡¯t keep running. Every step he took led him back to the same destination, as if the very forest itself was twisted to trap him.


    "We will always be near," said the branch man with one last, sinister smile. "There is no refuge. There is no escape."


    Juan closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, the creature was gone. But the echo of its voice still resonated in his mind. The branch men would always be near, always watching, and when they grew tired of waiting, they would destroy him. Somehow, that feeling of constant stalking, of being watched without rest, was even more terrifying than the possibility of being captured.

 Prophet

    The sound of the fork against the white porcelain resonated in the silence of the shelter. Gustavo chewed calmly, with the confidence of someone who has defeated fate. In front of him, his wife poured more wine into her glass, while their three daughters played with their almost-empty plates. His parents, in-laws, and brother-in-law conversed in a hushed murmur, avoiding looking him in the eye. Only his grandmother, with her trembling hands, seemed unaware of the heavy burden of that night.


    Outside, beyond the thick reinforced steel walls, despair reigned. From the armored window, Gustavo had seen hundreds of people crawling through the dry earth, scratching at the door, begging with tears and screams for him to let them in. But he didn¡¯t. He couldn¡¯t.


    It had all started with an accident. Two years ago, as he was riding his bicycle home from work, a truck ran him over. The doctors said he had been dead for three minutes. Three minutes in which he saw the future.


    It wasn¡¯t a dream, nor a hallucination. It was a clear, precise, and detailed glimpse of the world to come. He saw cities reduced to ashes, charred bodies lined up in the streets like mountains of dead flesh, he saw the sky darkened and the land turn barren. He saw the exact dates of everything: the first missile launched by mistake, the immediate retaliation, the inevitable escalation. He knew that in two years, the world would burn.


    When he woke up, he tried to warn everyone. He went to the press, internet forums, local radio stations, even tried with politicians. They mocked him. They called him crazy. ¡°Another apocalypse fanatic,¡± they said. He gave exact dates, predicted smaller conflicts, but even when those happened, people found ways to discredit him. ¡°Coincidence,¡± they said.


    For two years, he fought. He begged, screamed, pleaded. Until he grew tired. If the world didn¡¯t want to listen, then let it condemn itself. He had a gift, and he would use it to save himself.


    He got rich. He bet on the stock market with surgical precision, invested in real estate that he knew would skyrocket before the collapse, bought materials before the fear of war drove prices up. And he built his shelter. Not just any bunker. A self-sustaining underground palace with hydroponic crops, energy generators, food reserves for decades. Unique technology. Only for him and his family.


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    And now, here he was, with them, having dinner, while outside the desperate tore their throats shouting for help. He had seen old friends, colleagues, even neighbors. One by one, he turned them away. Their pleading looks didn¡¯t affect him. He had warned them. He tried to save them. They chose not to listen.


    A child¡¯s scream pulled him from his thoughts. Outside, a man was pounding the door with bloodied fists. ¡°My son! Just my son! I beg you! Let him in, he¡¯s not to blame!¡± Gustavo closed his eyes and sighed. ¡°It¡¯s too late,¡± he murmured to himself.


    He took another bite of his dinner. It was delicious.


    Gustavo looked at his wife. Julia had her gaze fixed on her glass of wine. He knew she didn¡¯t fully agree with what they had done, with what they were doing. But she had never said it out loud. She had never confronted him. She was a practical woman, and above all, she loved their daughters. She accepted it for them.


    His eldest daughter, Camila, set her fork down on the plate. ¡°Dad, what will happen next?¡± Her voice was barely a whisper. The girl was twelve, old enough to understand what was happening outside.


    ¡°We¡¯ll live,¡± he answered. ¡°We have everything we need here.¡±


    ¡°And the others?¡± asked his youngest daughter, Sof¨ªa, seven years old. ¡°Aren¡¯t they going to come in?¡±


    A heavy silence fell over the table. Gustavo looked at his wife. Julia looked away. His in-laws, his brother-in-law, no one dared respond. Finally, it was the grandmother who spoke.


    ¡°We can¡¯t save them, little one,¡± she said softly. ¡°There¡¯s not enough for everyone.¡±


    Sof¨ªa lowered her head, stirring the remnants of her food with her fork. She didn¡¯t say anything else.


    The next day, when Gustavo checked the cameras again, the man was dead. The boy was still there, trembling, alone.


    He closed his eyes. He couldn¡¯t save everyone, so he pressed a button, and the sound of bullets followed immediately.


    ¡°It¡¯s the most humane thing I can do,¡± he murmured, then turned off the cameras and left the room, only to gaze at his warm family, the regret and guilt fading away when he saw them happy.


    The shelter was his world now. His family, his only responsibility.

 Whistle

    In a city of dark streets, where the lights flickered with weak hope and the shadows stretched with the slow pace of an illness, a boy walked alone, leaving behind a faint echo of steady footsteps. He was about ten years old, though his gaze seemed older, as if the darkness itself had stolen a part of his childhood. His face had an unsettling softness, with large, dark eyes, filled with a sinister gleam that reflected no innocence. His skin was pale, and a light breeze gently stirred his black hair, as dark as the night that surrounded him.


    He was dressed formally, in a black suit that seemed tailor-made for him. The jacket, fitted and short, fell just at his waist, and the white shirt underneath had perfectly aligned buttons, as if it had just been pressed. A black vest, tightly fitting his body, gave him an even more distinguished air, with a black velvet bow tie meticulously tied at his neck, adding a touch of refined elegance. His dark, straight trousers fell perfectly over a pair of black patent leather shoes that reflected the light escaping through the cracks in the nearby windows. Everything about his appearance spoke of a kind of paradox: a boy whose appearance was more suited for a ceremony than for an adventure in the dark.


    The night seemed to wait for his next move. With every step he took, the creaking of his shoes echoed, like a signal that the darkness itself recognized him. But, contrary to what one might imagine of a boy walking alone in a dangerous city, he seemed to fear nothing. Instead, his face remained in a calculated seriousness, and as he passed through deserted alleys, his soft whistle began to fill the air. It was a warm, persuasive melody, like a gentle call one might hear in a dream, but whose source was never seen.


    As the boy advanced, the shadows seemed to draw closer to him, as if waiting for someone to fall into their trap. It didn''t take long before someone was drawn to his presence. A man, with a lanky posture, wearing a tattered cloak and a face obscured by alcohol, approached the boy, dragging his feet, unaware of what had drawn him there. When he was close enough, the boy stopped whistling and looked him directly in the eyes, as if he were observing something far beyond the mere human figure before him.


    "Hello, sir," the boy said in a soft, but unmistakably firm voice. "I know what you''ve done, and I know where you''re headed. But if you want to stay alive, I suggest you walk away from me."


    The man blinked, confused by the calmness in the boy''s voice, and for a moment, he thought it was just another child. His gaze hardened, and the temptation to approach the boy overtook him. "What are you going to do? I''m no fool," the man grunted, dismissing the warnings with a malicious chuckle.


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    But the boy didn''t move an inch. With a gesture of his hand, as if it were an order, the atmosphere grew denser, as if something invisible surrounded him. A small whirl of wind began to lift the dirt from the street, and in the air, the boy''s words resonated: "I warned you. If you keep bothering me, I''ll take you to a place from which you won''t be able to leave. You''ll be trapped there forever."


    The man, still under the influence of his own arrogance, decided to challenge the boy''s threat. "What are you talking about, little one? Who do you think you are?"


    The boy didn''t answer immediately. Instead, he began to whistle again, this time a melody even more unsettling, as the air grew colder with each passing moment. The man stopped, feeling a chill run down his spine, but before he could react, the ground beneath his feet began to open up, dragging him toward a dark abyss.


    "What... what are you doing to me?" the man screamed, but his words quickly vanished into nothingness. He could see nothing, only hear his own voice echoing in an empty space where light never reached. The walls seemed to move, stretching and contracting around him, and with every attempt to escape, he became more lost in the endless labyrinth. He screamed, desperate, but no one heard.


    While all of this unfolded, the boy stood observing from a corner of the street. There was no emotion on his face, no joy, no sadness. He simply watched with an unshakable calm, as if everything were part of his routine. When the man finally faded into the darkness, the boy resumed his walk, continuing on his path as if nothing had happened.


    But not all was for those who did evil. The boy kept walking, softly whistling, until he saw a small child, huddled in a dark corner. His eyes were filled with fear, and his body trembled. The boy watched him for a moment, his face now softened by an expression of understanding. There were no mockeries, no threats, only a gaze that understood the fear.


    "Why are you here, little one?" he asked, his voice filled with a warmth that contrasted with the darkness surrounding him.


    The child, trembling, looked up. "I''m scared. I want to go home, but I don''t know how."


    The formally dressed boy gently approached and, with a hand full of kindness, took a small candy from his pocket. He held it out to the frightened child and smiled, though his smile was melancholic.


    "Here, little one. Good people deserve good things," he said as the child took the candy with a trembling hand.


    The boy did not leave; instead, he stayed there, watching as the child began to savor the candy. "Don''t be afraid, everything will be fine now."


    And, as if it were all part of an enchantment, the boy began to whistle again, and with that, he vanished into the darkness, disappearing along with the echo of his melody. The breeze carried his figure as the city, now in complete silence, continued on its course. The echoes of the boy faded, leaving behind a place where darkness could never reach those who were pure of heart.


    And so, the boy in formal attire and the unsettling melody continued his path through the empty streets, carrying with him the balance of darkness and light, offering justice to the ill-intentioned and comfort to the innocent, while the shadows embraced him once more.