Hézo
Two days later, the outline of Edo appeared on the horizon. The first towers, proud yet uneven, rose amid swirls of dust. The capital hummed with a life that could be felt even from afar.
The entry went smoothly. As in most large cities, the guards were barely attentive, overwhelmed by the constant flow of people. In Edo, one entered as easily as one breathed.
Hézo dismounted to spare his horse. The animal, like him, needed rest. He walked beside it slowly, shoulders slumped, face pale, eyes stripped of light. His skin, coated in dust and exhaustion, bore the marks of a harsh journey. He was nothing but the shadow of the prince he once was.
A tempting smell reached his nostrils. He turned his head: just a few steps away, a street stall overflowed with steaming, golden sandwiches. A spark of hunger flickered in his eyes. His stomach twisted, and he swallowed hard.
He slipped away from the bustle, down a narrow alley, and found a small nook between two crumbling buildings. There, he tied his horse to a rusted pole, scanned the area, and set off toward the stall.
With a swift gesture, he pulled his hood low over his face. Then, without hesitation, he lunged toward the counter, grabbed a sandwich, and bolted.
"Thief! Stop him!" a voice shouted behind him.
Merchants rushed after him, but Hézo ran as though fire chased his heels. He darted into a side street, leaped over a barrel, squeezed between two pedestrians, and vanished into the maze of the city.
Out of breath, he returned to his hiding place. The dead-end alley welcomed him like a silent embrace. He collapsed to the ground, panting, his back against a cold wall. He tore into the sandwich with desperate hunger. The taste — simple but filling — flooded him with a painful kind of relief. After two days without food, this felt like a feast.
He broke the sandwich in half, offered a piece to his horse, and gently stroked its neck. The touch of the black coat against his palm calmed him. Then, an idea took root in his mind.
Wura.
What if… he went to the Sinas'?
After their chance meeting on the road to Edo, they had run into each other again in the city days later and hadn't separated since. The bond between them had been so natural, so strong, it was as if they were siblings. For the first time, Hézo had truly felt like he belonged to a family. Even if it had only lasted a few months.
Now, maybe that same family could offer him shelter for a few days. It had been five years since he'd last seen Wura and her parents. Maybe they had changed. Maybe they had forgotten. And he didn't want to impose.
But… what else did he have left? For now, it was his best chance, a roof for a night or two. Just enough time to breathe, to get his bearings, and to find a way to grow stronger.
The decision was made. He mounted his horse again, eyes fixed on the horizon. It was now or never.
***
Hézo froze. His mouth slightly open, his eyes wide with disbelief.
— Good gods… what happened here? he murmured to himself, unable to look away from the Sina family's house.
The wrought-iron gate was twisted, groaning softly in the wind. Behind its rusted bars stood the house, in the middle of a wild garden overrun with tall grass and thick brambles that seemed to swallow the cracked stone path leading to the front door.
Once, it had been a lush garden that Wura's family tended with love. Hézo had helped them many times — harvesting vegetables, sowing seeds.
Now the house itself looked lifeless, abandoned for years. Its shattered windows cast shards of shadow, like empty eye sockets. The paint had peeled away in large patches, revealing darkened wood, almost charred by time.
The roof sagged slightly to one side.
Despite the city's clamor all around — the cries of merchants, the clatter of hooves, the chaos of daily life — an eerie stillness wrapped this corner of the street. As if the house had built an invisible barrier of memory and forgetfulness.
A shiver ran down Hézo's spine, not of fear, but of foreboding.
Footsteps echoed suddenly on the stone street. A man in a worn coat, an empty basket on his arm, walked by slowly, head slightly bowed. Driven by sudden impulse, Hézo turned toward him.
— Excuse me, he said. This house… do you know what happened here?
The man stopped and looked up at the dark façade. A crease formed on his brow. He was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.
— It's been empty for three years, he murmured. The family who lived there disappeared. Just like that.
Hézo frowned.
— Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared?
The passerby shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the house.
— Vanished, left everything behind. Broken furniture, shattered glass. But no blood. No trace.
A long silence fell between them, almost reverent. Even the air seemed to hold its breath. Hézo felt a chill crawl down his neck, like a drop of icy water.
— Three years… he whispered, throat tight. And no one knows what happened?
The man shook his head slowly.
— No one. Some say they left. Others… say they never really did.
Then, without another word, the passerby walked away, his steps swallowed by the echoes of the street.
***
The gate groaned behind him as Hézo pushed the half-open grille.
The wind seemed to have withdrawn, as if refusing to accompany anyone beyond that forgotten threshold.
His boots sank into the tall grass, whispering against the silence. He moved slowly, each step pulling him deeper into this place suspended outside of time.
Before him stretched the terrace, blanketed in dust. Hézo remembered the evenings he'd spent there with Wura, sitting side by side, reading stories from a great book of tales. His throat tightened. All of that belonged now to the past, and to the purest corners of his memory.
The front door — tall, dark, and heavy — was slightly ajar. He didn't even need to push it; it gave way with a groan.
A wave of dampness, rotting wood, and cold ash struck him. He stepped inside.
The living room opened before him, spacious, but disfigured.
Furniture lay scattered: an armchair overturned on the rug, a torn sofa spilling its stuffing like entrails, a coffee table split clean in half. All over the floor, shards of glass glimmered faintly in the gray light filtering through faded curtains. Broken bottles. Fallen lamps. Signs of sudden chaos.
But that wasn't the most oppressive part. It was the air.
It was dense, almost solid, saturated with silence. The atmosphere pressed down on his shoulders, on his chest. Each breath felt like a struggle.
And then…
A memory struck.
Without warning, pain split through his temple. Hézo staggered; his vision blurred; and the scene burst into his mind — raw, brutal, impossible to ignore.
This living room. The same. But different.
Five years ago.
He remembered it with terrifying clarity, a vision he had once dismissed as delirium or nightmare.
Bodies. Pale bodies sprawled across the floor.
Lying in thick, dark pools of red. Blood had seeped between the wooden boards, soaking the carpet until it lost all color. Eyes open. Empty. Still.
He had seen this scene. But it hadn't happened yet.
Not back then.
And yet, here it was.
This house had become the exact stage of his former vision.
Hézo took a step back, his heart hammering in his skull, cold sweat running down his spine.
— It can't be… he whispered.
And yet every fiber of his being screamed that not only was it possible…
It was written.
This house, this scene, this pain… had been tied to him from the very beginning.