The makeshift library was plunged into a heavy silence. The candles scattered across the tables cast shadows that stretched across the shelves, creating the illusion that the books were moving discreetly when no one was looking. Elisa, her sleeves rolled up, organized piles of papers and notes, constantly checking to make sure she hadn't missed a detail. Miguel watched in silence, the medallion hanging around his neck pulsing with a subtle heat, as if he, too, were paying attention.
Pedro scribbled incessantly, charcoal sliding over sheets of paper as he connected symbols, lines, and intertwining patterns, meticulous copies of the runes scattered throughout the city. Jorge, the oldest of the group, bent over yellowed maps rescued from forgotten archives. The lines on his face tightened whenever he compared the symbols to streets and alleys he knew by heart—or at least, he thought he knew, comparing them with the young man's improvised diagrams.
Elisa and Miguel watched in silence, attentive to each pulse of the medallion that Miguel kept on the table.
"If you line up here…" Pedro murmured, tracing a circle around three runes. "And here too."
When he finished, a strange pattern emerged. The symbols were no longer isolated; together, they seemed to fit the contours of the city streets.
"It's impossible…" Jorge rubbed his eyes. "These symbols can't… they can't form… a map."
"If you look here," Jorge wrote, his letters shaky on a piece of parchment, "you'll see that this pattern isn't isolated. It follows the line of the old wall."
Elisa approached, adjusting her glasses, and frowned.
"And this other one, near the fountain... it corresponds to the square, doesn't it?"
Miguel nodded. From the beginning, he'd had the impression those runes weren't just words or loose curses. Now, confirmation began to dawn on them: they weren't phrases, but directions. A hidden map.
Elisa wrote in her notebook:
"That's exactly it. A map made of memories."
As Pedro connected the symbols with thin lines of paint, a network began to emerge. It wasn't perfect, but the dots connected: the square, the forest, the ruins of the old market, and even the abandoned watchtower at the edge of town. Each symbol seemed to mark a forgotten landmark, a place where the city's history had left its scars.
However, the more the drawing took shape, the heavier the atmosphere in the room became. The air felt dense, as if the walls were closing in. The silence, though already constant, now seemed to carry an electric charge, a weight that crushed the lungs.
Sofia, who had been leafing through mythology books until then, stopped suddenly. Her hand was shaking.
"What… what was the name of my student who always brought me flowers?" she asked quietly.
Everyone looked at her. The silence stretched.
"I… I can't remember," she whispered, pale. "I always knew… and now… nothing."
Clara clutched the rosary around her neck. "The Guardian is already taking its toll. Every step we take against her tears away a piece of who we are."
"That's stress," Sofia countered, her voice breaking. "Trauma, collective suggestion. Not magic."
"Suggestion doesn't erase memories, girl," Clara replied firmly. "That's the Guardian."
And on the other side it was Pedro's turn who blinked several times and dropped the pen on the paper.
"I... I..." he began to murmur, but didn't finish. His eyes drifted into space.
Miguel grabbed him by the shoulder.
"What happened?"
"I... I don't know." Pedro looked around as if he'd woken from a dream. "I can't remember my father's name."
The confession fell over the group like a cold blade. Elisa put her hand to her mouth, and Jorge closed his eyes, as if he'd already expected it. The curse, until then a collective and abstract phenomenon, now bit intimately, tearing away pieces of personal memory.
Fear spread like a shadow between them. Elisa tried to calm Pedro, but shortly after, it was Jorge who dropped his parchment.
"This neighborhood..." he said, pointing to a spot on the map. "I know I've been there. That I was born there. But... I can't remember the name. Not even the street."
He trembled. It was as if part of his identity had been suddenly ripped away, leaving only emptiness.
Miguel clutched the medallion in his hand. The object was warm, pulsing like a racing heart. Suddenly, one of the runes on the table glowed faintly, the same one Jorge had pointed to.
"It's reacting," Elisa wrote hurriedly, unable to hide her anxiety. "The medallion recognizes something at this point."
Miguel brought it closer to the paper. The glow grew, spreading in irregular circles. The candle flames wavered, and for a moment everyone felt as if they were being watched.
Pedro stepped back.
"It seems... he knows where we should go."
Comparing the old maps with the notes, they noticed something even more disturbing: the symbol didn't correspond to any officially recorded location. In the archives, that area was an empty space, as if nothing existed there.
"Impossible." Jorge shook his head. "I've lived in this city my whole life. I know every street, every stone. But... I can't remember what was there."
"Where… where was I born?" he asked, confused. "I've always told stories about my childhood, but… I can't anymore…"
Miguel leaned closer, trying to point out Jorge. "You were born here, Jorge. You always told us that."
"Really?" He looked at Miguel with a frightening emptiness in his eyes. "And who are you?"
The sentence hit the group like a punch. Jorge, the guardian of memory, was already being consumed.
Miguel felt fear seep through him, icy cold. For a moment, he doubted himself. What if, in the end, they all disappeared into forgotten pieces?
Elisa touched his hand and handed him a piece of paper. "I remember you," she said, looking directly into his eyes. "As long as I remember, you exist."
He took a deep breath. The medallion's glow responded, as if acknowledging the promise.
The map still pulsed, and the forgotten spot shone like an inevitable call.
"If we want to understand the Guardian, we have to go there," Pedro wrote, with a conviction that belied his age.
"It's suicide," Sofia replied, still trembling. "If we're losing memories here, what will happen when we're at the epicenter?"
Clara raised her rosary, filled with faith. "Maybe this is our only chance. Either we face the Guardian, or we're lost forever."
Miguel looked around, seeing the fear and determination mingled on their faces. The silence in the room was almost a pact.
He raised the medallion. "Let's go to the place that doesn't exist."
When everyone left the library, the map remained on the table. The runes, rearranged, pulsed like a living heart.
At the back of the room, one of the symbols moved on its own, slowly moving out of the drawing—as if the map itself were trying to rewrite itself.
The group paused for a moment before the silent city. Moonlight bathed the deserted streets in a silvery glow, and the houses seemed to sleep in shared nightmares. Shadows danced on the walls, as if the engraved runes were alive, pulsing.
Miguel clutched the medallion tightly. With each step they took toward the unknown, he felt the object's energy grow, but also something inside him empty. The city seemed to suck them in, exacting a price for each revelation.
He knew, with painful clarity, that the closer they got to the truth, the more vulnerable they would become. But retreating was no longer an option.
The group moved on in silence, united by the same decision: to find the forgotten place. To find what the city was trying to erase.
And deep in their hearts, an unspoken question echoed:
What would they find when memory faded?