Dawn settled over the city like a thick veil, muffling even the wind. The silence seemed heavier after the visit to the forgotten building. Miguel, Elisa, Jorge, and Pedro returned through the cobblestone streets, each footstep echoing differently, as if the sound were swallowed by invisible walls.
Miguel clutched the medallion to his chest. His skin still burned from his last reaction, when the Guardian had insinuated herself in fragmented visions before the altar. Jorge's interrupted sentence—"the inevitable exchange"—thumbed in his mind, but there was no time to search for answers.
Elisa walked attentively, her eyes scanning every window. The city seemed abandoned from within. Curtains swayed without hands to move them, doors creaked on their own, as if the architecture itself were forgetting its function. Pedro murmured nervous gestures, pointing to shadows that dragged along the walls without anything to cast them.
When they reached the square, the heart of the city, they saw dozens of residents gathered. The air smelled of sweat and fear. Women held children who no longer cried—they just stared into space, like broken dolls. Men hurriedly scribbled notes, trying to capture memories before they faded: a child's name, a mother's face, the taste of fresh bread.
It was there, in the center of this despair, that a figure broke the monotony.
Tall, thin, wrapped in a dark, weather-worn cloak, he walked with the calm of someone undaunted by the weight of silence. His gray hair was tied in a low knot, and his deep-set eyes scanned the crowd with disconcerting serenity.
In his right hand, he leaned on an ancient wooden staff, marked with runes familiar to Miguel—similar to those seen on the forgotten building.
Pedro tugged on Miguel's arm, and his wide eyes conveyed the message without needing paper: he's not from here.
The stranger didn't seem to fear the stares. He walked steadily to the dry fountain in the center of the square, where he stopped. His eyes then fell directly on Miguel and, more specifically, on the medallion. The object heated up immediately, burning as if recognizing a hidden connection.
Elisa stepped back, squeezing Miguel's arm, and scribbled quickly on her clipboard:
"He knows. Be careful."
The stranger raised his staff. With a short knife, he scratched a symbol on it. The lines glowed, pulsing like veins. And then the impossible happened: a sound pierced the square.
Faint, drawn-out, almost a whisper, but undeniable. One word:
"Guardian…"
The impact was immediate. Some residents fell to their knees, hands on their heads. Others covered their ears, in vain. The terror came not from the sound itself, but from its very existence. Since the curse began, no sound had pierced the absolute silence.
The children trembled in their mothers' arms. The older ones cried silent tears.
It was at that moment that another figure stood out from the crowd. Dr. Vasconcelos, always elegant even in times of disorder, held up a slate on which he had written, in large letters:
"Who brought this man here?"
His hard gaze swept over the residents. He didn't expect answers, only confirmation of what he already believed. He tapped his polished cane against the ground, the dry sound echoing like a silent accusation.
All eyes turned to the stranger. A silent murmur spread across the square—lips moving soundlessly, fingers pointing, suspicious glances. A child clung to his mother's skirt, his face buried in the cloth.
The stranger, however, was unfazed. He approached Miguel without asking permission. The medallion heated up even more, as if it were about to explode.
Miguel took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, and wrote on a piece of paper:
"Who are you? What do you know about these runes?"
The man removed from his cloak a yellowed parchment, covered in symbols identical to those they had seen in the forgotten building. He handed it to Miguel without hesitation. The medallion vibrated so strongly that Pedro had to hold it close to Miguel to keep it from falling from his hand.
Then the stranger took a piece of charcoal and wrote on a makeshift tablet:
"I am a traveler. I have followed the Guardian's signs thus far. You have only scratched the surface."
The silence of the square erupted into chaos. People began to gesticulate desperately. Some approached, reaching out to touch the man's cloak, believing it to be salvation. Others backed away, convinced it was the very harbinger of doom.
Vasconcelos lifted his slate with a heavy hand, and the written words appeared like a sentence:
"Lies! He brings the curse among us! Drive him out before he consumes us!"
Panic spread. Some screamed voicelessly, demanding that the stranger be accepted as their guide. Others brandished tools and stones, ready to drive him away. The silence transformed every movement into something brutal: desperate gestures, suppressed tears, silent violence.
Miguel and Elisa tried to intervene, but were swallowed up by the wave of distrust. Pedro and Jorge looked at each other, confused, unable to decide who to believe.
The stranger, amidst the chaos, simply smiled. An enigmatic smile, revealing nothing. Calmly, he pointed his staff toward the distant forest and wrote another sentence:
"The Guardian's heart is not here."
The symbol engraved on her staff glowed again, as if confirming her words.
Elisa trembled. Her eyes sought Miguel's, who still held the scroll. The medallion vibrated against his chest, warm, as if begging for a choice.
That night, the city lost more than memories. It also lost the fragile bond that held it together.