Dawn still hung heavy over the city, but the square hadn't emptied since the stranger's arrival. Tension hung in the air like dust that never settles. The man remained motionless, leaning on his staff, while Dr. Vasconcelos, with his rigid posture, fueled the crowd's distrust.
Miguel and Elisa had taken Jorge to rest after his fainting spell, but the group had returned quickly—they couldn't let the situation escalate. Miguel's medallion throbbed against his chest, and he felt every glance the stranger cast weigh on him.
A quiet murmur spread across the square. A mother held her son, about eight years old, by the shoulders, shaking him desperately. She wrote hastily on a makeshift chalkboard:
"He doesn't remember his own name!"
The boy looked around, his eyes lost, trying to find something familiar. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn't sob—he just trembled, as if he'd been ripped from the world.
Pedro, who had been watching closely, paled. He approached and touched the boy's shoulder, trying to comfort him. The boy flinched, unable to react. Pedro pulled away, his hand trembling as if he had touched ice.
"If even the children... what will become of us?" he scribbled, his handwriting crooked from haste.
The collective silence grew heavier. The city had already lost its voices, its memories, and now it was beginning to lose its very identity.
Dr. Vasconcelos raised his slate above his head. His cane tapped firmly on the ground, imposing rhythm on his writing:
"We need order. What we see is proof that this stranger has brought the curse deeper into our lives. As long as he remains, no one will be safe."
The crowd reacted with violent gestures—some nodding, others waving their arms in denial. The stranger remained silent, as if he weren't a target.
Elisa grabbed Miguel's arm and wrote quickly on her clipboard:
"If we expel him without understanding, we lose the chance to discover something. He knows the runes."
Miguel silently agreed. But Vasconcelos's words carried considerable weight. He had respect, influence, and now he was using fear as fuel.
As the square bustled, Jorge leaned against a nearby wall. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes blinked unfocused. He breathed deeply, trying to compose himself, but he seemed increasingly lost.
"I... I don't remember my mother's face," he wrote on a piece of paper Elisa had handed him.
Jorge's hands trembled. Elisa swallowed hard, holding the note as if it were too fragile to exist.
Miguel watched silently, increasingly certain that time was against them. The curse not only threatened them as investigators, but also eroded their very ties to the past.
Pedro, for his part, was different. Not just scared, but restless. He scribbled symbols in a notebook compulsively, as if trying to capture each rune before it disappeared from his mind. When questioned, he replied:
"If I don't write it down now, I'll forget it too."
It wasn't just the people. The city itself seemed to react. The square's walls, covered in moss and damp, showed new fissures. Runes appeared in the cracks, discreet but pulsing as if breathing.
A group of residents pointed to the fountain in the center. The once-crystalline water was murky, and beneath the surface moved shadows that didn't correspond to any reflection. One woman wrote in despair:
"I saw my reflection smile without me smiling."
Panic spread. Some retreated, others knelt as if seeking protection.
Finally, the stranger raised the parchment he was carrying. With charcoal, he wrote in firm letters:
"You are looking at the symptoms. The root is deeper."
He pointed to Miguel's medallion. The object vibrated so intensely that Miguel had to hold it against his chest to keep it from jumping.
"The map you saw is only a fragment. There is more, hidden in what has been forgotten."
The crowd divided even further. Some tried to get closer to see the parchment, others demanded his expulsion.
Vasconcelos violently raised his slate:
— "He lies! Every minute with him is another lost memory. Drive him out before the city disappears completely!"
People began to push and shove. One group surrounded the stranger, trying to snatch his staff from him. Another defended him, convinced it held the key to salvation.
Miguel stepped forward to intervene, but the chaos was too much for him to control. Elisa screamed silently, gesturing for the people to move away. Jorge fell to his knees, clutching his head, as if fighting his own mind. Pedro, for his part, clutched his notebook to his chest, as if it were his only anchor.
The stranger raised his staff a second time. The runes engraved on it lit up red. A wave of cold swept through the square. The chaos ceased for a moment, as if everyone were under the same invisible pressure.
Then a new rune appeared on the wall behind the fountain, carving itself into the stone. It glowed brightly, alive, as if it had just been born.
Miguel felt the medallion heat up again. The newly formed symbol wasn't like the others—it seemed unstable, trembling between existence and disappearance.
Elisa wrote quickly:
"It's a marker. It's showing the next point."
But before they could react, a voice rose among the residents. It wasn't a real sound, but an echo in their minds: a fragmented word, lacking complete form, but filled with dread.
"...forget it..."
Many fell to their knees. Some wept silently, others stared blankly. The nameless boy clung to his mother, but he already seemed distant, as if half of himself had been left behind.
Miguel stared at the stranger, his chest burning with the medallion. He didn't know whether to trust him or cast him out. But he knew, with cruel clarity, that time was running out.