The silence that hung over the city no longer felt like just an absence of sound. It was as if every street, every stone, and every facade had absorbed all the life that once pulsed there, transforming the space into something immobile, heavy, almost palpable. Miguel walked through the narrow streets of the city center, feeling his footsteps reverberate against the walls like echoes of a life that insisted on continuing, even without a voice. Every corner revealed a fragment of the tragedy that engulfed the entire city.
In front of the bakery, an elderly man was trying to gesture to someone, pointing to the freshly baked bread on the counter. He repeated the same movements, raising and lowering his hand, opening his mouth without making a sound. Miguel realized he no longer remembered what he was doing there, nor who used to visit the bakery every morning. A crumpled piece of paper on the floor bore only a faded scribble: "Someone help me." The detective took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in his chest. Each repetitive gesture, each lost look, was a silent cry of desperation.
As Miguel walked through the market, he found a young woman sitting among fruit scattered on the ground. Her red hair fell in disarray around her shoulders, and her hands trembled as she tried to write something in a notebook. With each word she formed, the ink seemed to evaporate, disappearing before it even dried. When Miguel approached, she looked up, revealing pupils dilated with fear. She tried to speak, but nothing came out; only desperate gestures. Miguel felt a pang of helplessness. It was impossible to help her with words; the entire city was slowly being ripped from itself.
Further ahead, a child ran, stumbling between tents and uneven sidewalks. He had light brown hair and wide, confused eyes, as if searching for something that wasn't there. He clutched a doll tightly, rocking it as if he could call someone. Miguel bent down and took his hand. The boy stared at him blankly, not understanding who was in front of him. "What's your name?" Miguel wanted to ask, but any words would die before they could come out. On the paper he handed the child, he carefully wrote: "You are safe with me." The boy read it, frowned, and repeated the gesture, but the confusion remained.
Elisa stood nearby, carrying stacks of paper and notepads, trying to organize the residents to write down their most important memories before they disappeared. With each piece of paper handed out, a trail of hope was formed, however fleeting.
"We need to save what we still can," she wrote, handing a sheet of paper to Miguel.
He read it and felt the raw truth of the words. It wasn't just about losing voices; the entire city was being ripped from itself, little by little. Every gesture, every look, every attempt at communication carried with it the fear of disappearing forever.
Turning down an alley near the central square, Miguel noticed makeshift resistance groups. People who still remembered their names tried to teach signs, gestures, and written words to those who had already partially forgotten. A teenage couple guided children, showing them simple drawings and survival words, while an older woman tried to tell stories of her youth, reciting silently, letting her gestures convey the meaning. Still, many of the memories faded before they could even be passed on.
Miguel stopped before the ancient fountain in the center of the square. The water was still, reflecting a gray sky that seemed to weigh down the city. On the stones, luminous symbols began to flicker, almost like living scars. Each rune pulsed with greater intensity as Miguel approached, responding to the medallion hanging on his chest. A shiver ran down his spine; for the first time, he realized it wasn't just an object of historical or family value. The medallion had a direct connection to the curse that plagued the city.
As he surveyed the square, Miguel noticed small scenes that stabbed him like silent knives. An elderly man held his wife's hands, but neither of them remembered who they were to each other. A mother hugged her son tightly, and the boy stared at her without recognizing her face, shaking his head in confusion. In another corner, two friends met and held out their hands, trying to remember what they used to share, but no words emerged. Only silence and frustration filled the space between them.
The emotional impact wasn't limited to close relationships. Even simple everyday interactions had disappeared. Merchants who once greeted customers with a smile now stared at the ground, unable to recall the routines that once filled their days. Young people played in squares and streets, but without sound, without laughter, without any record of what made a child a child. It was a city alive and at the same time dead, an organism that functioned but was slowly being corroded from within.
Miguel felt the urge to act. But what could be done when every gesture, every word, every memory was being stolen by an invisible force? He thought of the medallion again, and how it reacted to the runes. If there was a key to the mystery, the object was likely the centerpiece. Still, the entire city was on the brink of psychological collapse.
"Elisa…" he wrote, handing her the paper to read.
"It's not just voice. It's identity. It's everything we are."
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the surrounding residents, her fingers stained with ink from the constant effort of recording every gesture, every memory that could still be saved.
As the day wore on, the sun illuminated the silent streets, casting long, cold shadows. Miguel walked among the residents, observing every reaction, every attempt at connection. Some still tried to smile; others simply stared into space, motionless, victims of a world fading around them. Every corner, every window, every open door told a story of loss, confusion, and silent resistance.
The medallion pulsed again, and Miguel felt a strange mix of power and responsibility. He knew the curse couldn't be fought with words, nor with simple gestures. What was happening was greater than any logical explanation. The city was being erased, and each resident carried the silent pain of realizing they could forget everything at any moment.
As he walked, Miguel noticed small sparks of hope. Some residents were still trying to organize themselves, forming writing circles, inventing codes, drawing improvised symbols to keep the memory alive. Each gesture, each attempt to save words, was a silent resistance, a silent cry against the erasure.
But deep down, Miguel knew the curse wasn't limited to small, individual efforts. It was as if the city itself were alive, ripping away each person's memories in a calculated, slow, and precise way. Every street, every square, every alley pulsed with this invisible force. And he, with the medallion on his chest, felt he played a fundamental role in it all.
The day was drawing to a close, tinging the sky with orange and violet hues, but the city remained utterly silent. Miguel observed the square, the residents, the symbols on the stones, and felt the first true realization of what he was facing: this wasn't just a momentary crisis. It was the beginning of an irreversible change, and every gesture, every word, every memory that disappeared was part of something much larger and more terrifying.
The city's silence was no longer absence. It was presence. And it was observing, judging, and perhaps choosing.