The night when it all began, the wind howled as if lamenting something lost. In a small village, where the fog clung to the cobblestone streets and the moon shone with a spectral light, stood the house of the Arévalo family, a family marked by tragedy. Pablo’s grandmother had recently passed away, leaving a void that could be felt in every corner of the home. The family had decided to hold a ceremony in her honor, but something else loomed in the air, a palpable tension that could not be ignored.
The family gathered in the living room, surrounded by photographs of the grandmother, her eyes always shining even in old age. As Pablo listened to his mother talk about memories, he couldn’t shake the whisper he had heard the night before, a familiar voice calling him from the shadows. His mind was torn between sadness and an unsettling curiosity. No one else seemed to notice the strange aura enveloping the house, as if time had stopped at a point between the real and the supernatural.
That night, while the others slept, Pablo quietly got up, driven by an inexplicable impulse. He descended the stairs, feeling the cold wood beneath his feet. Each step echoed like a heartbeat in the darkness. In the living room, the shadows stretched, and the air felt heavy, pressing against his chest. The fire in the fireplace barely illuminated the space, casting shadows that danced around him. It was then that he heard the whisper again, clearer than before: “Pablo, come.”
The voice was so soft, so familiar, that he almost felt comforted. He approached the window, where the fog swirled outside, and at the moment he looked into the garden, he saw the figure of his grandmother, standing by the old oak tree. Her face was illuminated by the moon, and her eyes seemed to shine with their own light. “Pablo…” the voice called again, resonating in his mind. Without thinking, he ran out, propelled by a mix of love and fear.
The outside air was cold, and the fog enveloped everything around him. When he reached the garden, his grandmother’s figure vanished like smoke, and he found himself alone, with a void in his stomach. “Grandma?” he shouted, but only the echo of his voice answered him. Uncertainty washed over him, and when he looked toward the oak tree, he realized there was something strange on the ground. He approached, and what he saw chilled his blood: a small wooden box, covered in dirt and dry leaves.
With trembling hands, he opened it and found a series of letters inside, all written by his grandmother. In one of them, a warning: “Do not seek what has been lost. Sometimes, the dead do not wish to be found.” Pablo’s heart raced. What had he done? His grandmother’s voice echoed in his mind, and suddenly, the air grew thick, as if time itself had stopped. The whisper transformed into a deafening scream, and the shadows of the garden began to come alive, stretching toward him.
Desperate, he turned and ran back to the house, but the shadows seemed to follow him, crawling and twisting. Upon entering, he found his family in the living room, still in a deep sleep, oblivious to the growing darkness that gathered around them. The fire in the fireplace had dwindled, and the room was shrouded in an unsettling gloom.
Looking toward the fireplace, Pablo saw a long shadow peering out from behind his family. The figure of his grandmother, now distorted and wrapped in shadows, looked at him with empty eyes. “You should not have sought me,” she whispered. Terror engulfed him, and in an instinctive act, he lunged at his family, trying to wake them, but it was as if they were trapped in a dream from which they could not escape.
At that moment, the figure approached, and with an ethereal hand, touched his face. A glacial cold coursed through his body, and his mind was invaded by visions of pain and loss, as if each of those memories were being projected within him. The letters in his hands turned to ashes, and a final sigh resonated in the room, an echo of his grandmother’s voice fading into the air.
He awoke in his bed, drenched in sweat, the sun shining through the window. He looked around, confused. Everything seemed normal, but the feeling of anguish lingered. As he got up, he noticed a letter on his desk, one he did not remember writing. He opened it with trembling hands and read the warning: “What has been lost should never be sought, or the price will be high.”
As the wind blew outside, a part of him knew that although he had escaped the darkness of the previous night, the echo of the dead’s last sigh would follow him. A shadow lurked in his mind, reminding him that sometimes, things should not be disturbed, and that the past never truly stays behind.