The lonely stone inhabitants of this exhausted land seemed to part sympathetically before her as she made her way through the rows of stone slabs, which grew daily at an unprecedented rate. “Hey, papá, I'm back,” she whispered, her voice catching as she reached her father's grave, the cool stone offering a cold comfort in the quiet of the graveyard.
The stone was modest, bearing no grand epitaphs or ornate carvings—just his name and a simple phrase: “Beloved Father and Husband.” As her eyes traced the cold letters, Carlos’s words about her mother’s grave resonated in her mind. "You'll see mamita soon, papá," she managed, tears breaking through, tracing salty paths down her cheeks. "And soon... me too," she added, her voice breaking into a whisper when an unexpected hand gently brushed her trembling shoulder.
Through a veil of tears, she barely managed to make out the elderly features in front of her. “Don’t cry, dear,” the voice soothed, a soft caress against the harsh whisper of the wind. "He's in a better place now," the woman added, her hand lightly stroking the girl's shaking shoulder.
Even if deaf and blind, the girl would recognize the bony hand on her shoulder. Mrs. Alba, a woman who's been a widow longer than the youth has lived. But even after many years, the red rose that she placed on the grave every day did not leave her palm.
Although slight, the warmth in the woman’s usually grumpy voice managed to heal the wounds in the lass's heart a little. “Thank you, señora Alb...” However, her attempt to express her gratitude escalated into a fit of coughing so violent that it doubled her over. When she looked down, she saw blood on her palms—thick, cruel blood from her lungs coating her trembling hands.
Her eyes, almost round with surprise, lifted to meet Mrs. Alba's. The woman’s face, to the girl’s surprise, was serene - only the slightly lowered corners of her eyes betrayed subtle indignation. "A better place, my girl," the older woman whispered, Mrs. Alba's gaze shifted skyward.
“No-no-no-no,” the girl murmured hysterically, her gaze darting frantically around the graveyard. The whistle of the wind creaking over the tombstones turned the silence of the stone into a gloomy invitation.
"Visit the church one last time, my dear. It matters in heaven," the old lady's voice filled with awe.
The girl's heart thudded painfully against her ribs as she choked out a desperate, "I ain’t gonna die!" Her feet carried her away from the death-soaked place.
The creeping curse that had suffocated the life out of the lands she called home now seemed to chase her breath itself, ravaging her lungs with a harsh, rattling sound that felt as if it were tearing her apart from the inside.
The heartbeat filled her eardrums, her breath catching in the thick air. The village paths, once trodden with ease and joy, now felt alien and menacing, every trail whispered of inevitable death.
Doors, once thresholds to warm, lively homes, now creaked mournfully on rusting hinges, their lament carried by the breeze; windows, the eyes of the village, stared vacantly. The once bustling corners of the village now lay deserted, amplifying the echo of her footsteps. Those she passed were ghostly figures, their faces gaunt, eyes hollow.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
She ran furiously and persistently, although she did not know where, until she was stopped by a comforting, familiar silhouette beneath the old willow tree nearby, a place of innocent gossip and dreams of young maidens. "Isa, today was just awful," she gasped, her voice artificially cheerful. "Say something dumb, like you always do, to cheer me up, huh?" There was no answer. "Isa?" she whispered, drawing nearer.
Nearing the old willow, she was assaulted by a vile stench, akin to that of a cesspit, that sharply stung her nostrils. Barely holding back the urge to gag, she extended a trembling hand towards Isa, her other hand clamped over her mouth and nose. "Isabella?" she muttered and leaned closer to meet the friend's gaze, her hand gently shaking her shoulder.
The girl's eyes widened in horror, a scream tore from her throat when Isa's head shifted grotesquely under the gentle nudge, tilting onto her shoulder at an unnatural angle to reveal a young, fragile face.
The young soul stumbled back, the soulless gaze of the dead before her unraveling her sanity thread by thread. A guttural cry escaped her as her hands clawed at the cold, unforgiving ground, desperately searching for grip. “Oh no, no, no.” Her heart pounded furiously; the merciless touch of abomination and stench seeping through her clothes and into her bones.
"I don't wanna die..." she whispered, gasping for air through sobs, her fingers clutching at the dirt, tears carving clear paths through the dust on her face. "I have a dream..." her voice breaking, her cries rising into the indifferent sky. Yet, the heavens remained silent, offering no sign of mercy. The forgotten soul's sobs were the only sound, reverberating through the stillness. Burying her face in her knees and wrapping her arms tightly around herself, as if the only warmth she could find was in her own embrace, she soaked the ground with her tears.
Yet, soon despair gave way to quiet acceptance. Her sobs subsided, and the trembling in her hands ceased as she calmly rested them on her knees. The once hostile whisper of the wind transformed into a beautiful melody, evoking a long-forgotten song from her early childhood, which used to bring a smile to her lips and warmth to her heart during even the saddest times. "When the world cries, in pain and fear, Celestials listen, drawing near; Their mighty hands dry every tear, In their embrace, we find our..."
But before she could finish, her words were softly interrupted. “Cheer...” a calm and confident voice sounded in front of her as warmth enveloped her hand—a comforting and impossible pressure. Startled, the girl opened her tear-streaked eyes to see her hand in the grasp of another—large and strong, yet impossibly gentle.
The touch radiated a profound warmth that surged through her veins, soothing her pain and healing the wounds that had plagued her body and soul with a flood of light and energy. Her lungs and throat, once torn, regained their youthful lightness, and the skin on her hands became soft and silky once again.
Looking up, the girl found herself staring into the face of a being that seemed more a figment of myth than flesh and blood. Its face was elongated and narrow, with high, pronounced cheekbones; its skin was pale, almost porcelain-like, speaking of eternal youth. Yet, its large, almond-shaped eyes seemed to carry the weight of millennia. Through its long, shoulder-length silver hair, pointed ears peeked.
Its presence radiating an aura of timeless grace and hope, as if it were a being spun from the very tales mothers whisper to their children at bedtime—tales meant to inspire hope in the darkest times.
“What is your name?” a voice asked, and the maiden’s gaze immediately turned to its source. The creature's lips, narrow and well-defined, curved into a gentle smile. Tinged with a subtle shade of natural pink, they were filled with life in contrast to the death that had surrounded her lately.
"Raquel," the girl replied hesitantly.
"And I am Diurnix," the being introduced itself, a promise of safety in the midst of chaos. "Tell me about your dream, Raquel."