Chapter 1: The Whisper of Oblivion
The air in the Municipal Historical Archive of Guayaquil was thick, an aged mix of dust, old paper, and a persistent dampness that clung to the skin, a constant echo of the nearby river. Elena Vargas, 26, a young historian with glasses perched on her nose and a contained energy that contrasted with her surroundings, moved familiarly among the shelves packed with volumes, scrolls, and files. Her mind was more on the stories yet to be discovered in the forgotten annals than on the tedium of her modest scholarship, which barely allowed her to pay the rent. That day, however, the Archive seemed more alive, more haunting than usual. Indistinct murmurs seemed to float in the echo of the tall naves, like voices drowned by time, and a strange gust of cold air, with no apparent source, made her skin crawl in the colonial records section. "Too much coffee, Elena," she told herself, rubbing her arms, trying to rationalize the sensation, a historian at heart refusing to believe in ghosts.
Outside, the Guayaquil afternoon was darkening with unnatural swiftness, not from the gentle decline of dusk, but from a thunderstorm bearing down on the city like an angry beast. A distant roll of thunder vibrated at the Archive's foundations, rattling the windowpanes. The air was charged with the premonition of the storm. Suddenly, the lights flickered violently, as if the building itself were holding its breath, before going out completely, plunging the vast space into an almost total, oppressive darkness, broken only by the intermittent flashes of lightning that momentarily painted the shelves with ghostly shadows, revealing shapes that seemed to move. The Archive's emergency system, as old as some of its oldest scrolls, didn't respond. A shiver of something more than cold ran through Elena as she pulled out her cell phone, the flashlight barely conquering the darkness that now seemed to have its own weight.
That's when she saw it. No flash, no illusion. A slippery shadow, faster and more unnatural than any person, slid between the shelves of the antique maps section. Its movement was liquid, impossible, as if it had no volume. Elena's heart raced, thumping hard against her ribs. It wasn't a play of light; it was an undeniable, ominous presence. An object, previously perched precariously on an upper shelf, fell with a crash that echoed in the silence, hitting the wooden floor and revealing a dark, pulsing stain on the surface. As Elena approached, her phone trembling, the beam of her flashlight revealed a journal bound in worn leather, open to a page with symbols she had never seen in her years of study: intricate glyphs that seemed to dance on the page, radiating a faint blue light barely visible to the naked eye. A strange energy emanated from it, drawing her in.
Chaos erupted outside, a symphony of alarm and terror. Distant screams and the high-pitched sound of car alarms pierced the night, while the storm roared with renewed force. The Archive's main door burst open, a mournful creak echoing through the halls. A tall, muscular figure burst through, soaked by the torrential rain. It was Javier "Javi" Castro, 30 years old, a former military officer, now a private investigator, with a hard gaze and an almost cynical pragmatism that contrasted with the surroundings. His presence was an anchor in the chaos. "Miss Vargas, are you okay? The city is a total mess. I'm investigating an incident in the area and saw the Archive door open," he said, his deep voice echoing in the silence, his powerful flashlight cutting through the darkness, illuminating Elena's pale face.
Elena, still shaking, but with a spark of discovery in her eyes, pointed to the open journal, the strange blue light pulsing. "Javi, I think I just saw... something. And this..." Her words were lost not only in the roar of the storm, but in the unspoken revelation that settled between them. Elena's known world had just collapsed, and Javi, the pragmatist, was about to be swept away with it. The journal pulsed once more, and the air in the Archive vibrated with a whisper Elena could no longer ignore: the whisper of Oblivion.