The day dawned soundlessly.
The sunlight didn't break through the clouds—it spread like a white stain, without warmth, without direction.
The city seemed suspended between time and oblivion.
Miguel, Elisa, Pedro, and Doctor Vasconcelos walked slowly back to the square, their bodies weary, their eyes hollow.
None of them dared speak, and even if they did, they knew the air wouldn't allow it.
It was Pedro who noticed first: the fountain in the center of the square was gushing red liquid.
It wasn't paint, nor rust.
It was blood—thick, dark, exuding a sweet, nauseating smell.
The residents gradually began to approach, forming a circle around the fountain. Some wept silently. Others simply watched, as if trying to remember what water was.
Miguel knelt before the fountain and touched the viscous surface.
The liquid pulsed beneath his hand, responding to the medallion hanging around his neck. Suddenly, a vision flashed through her mind:
streets covered in ash, faces melting, and a voice—her voice—whispering into the emptiness:
"The city needs to forget... to exist again."
Miguel backed away, panting.
Elisa held his arm, her gaze tense.
She wrote on her clipboard:
"You heard it too, didn't you?"
He just nodded.
Dr. Vasconcelos tried to contain his panic.
He wrote instructions on pages torn from a notebook:
"Stay away from the fountain."
"Bring the children inside."
But the residents no longer obeyed.
Some knelt before the fountain, dipping their hands in the blood, believing it would heal their memories.
Others screamed silently, tearing at their hair, as they tried to recall names that had vanished from their minds.
A woman staggered closer, her eyes glazed, and began muttering something inaudible.
Suddenly, she fell, convulsing.
On her neck, runes lit up beneath her skin, as if something were writing inside her body.
Pedro recoiled, horrified.
"She is being marked..." he wrote trembling.
Dr. Vasconcelos looked at Miguel.
"The second seal has awakened the Guardian's blood. She is writing again."
The square began to tremble.
The fountain's stones cracked, and a figure formed in the water—a tall, translucent silhouette shrouded in veils of shadow.
It had no face, but somehow, everyone knew who it was.
The Guardian didn't appear completely—just an outline, a presence that tore through the air.
Her "hands" stretched out over the city, touching rooftops, streetlights, bodies.
Everything she touched forgot its existence: windows disappeared, trees dissolved, voices grew even quieter.
Miguel fell to his knees.
The medallion burned, trying to resist her presence.
And then, he saw it:
a rune glowed at the bottom of the fountain—the third.
During the afternoon, chaos spread.
No one remembered their way home.
Children called out for parents they no longer recognized.
The church bells rang on their own, repeating a sound that seemed to come from underground.
Elisa tried to gather survivors at the old school.
Pedro helped, drawing protective symbols on the walls, but the runes faded minutes later.
It was like trying to write in water.
Doctor Vasconcelos watched the city from a window, noting each change in his diary.
"She doesn't destroy," he wrote. "She rewrites."
Miguel, exhausted, sat on the floor and looked at the medallion.
He noticed something new: beyond the dim light, there were now three cracks in the metal—one for each seal.
And within them, something like a heart beat.
Suddenly, a memory flashed through his mind:
Jorge, in the forgotten building, before he passed out, had said something about "the inevitable exchange."
Now he understood—each seal opened demanded a life.
The price of truth was someone's oblivion.
He stood up angrily.
"Enough. We can't keep opening seals without understanding what we're releasing."
The Doctor replied, writing hurriedly:
"What if it's not our choice? What if the Guardian uses our memories to open the seals herself?"
Elisa looked at them both, her hands stained with dried blood.
"Then we need to remember before she does."
At night, the fountain boiled.
The blood bubbled, reflecting not the sky, but the streets—distorted, as if in a dream.
Miguel approached, overcome by an irresistible sensation.
Within the water, he saw his own house.
But it wasn't empty—someone was waiting for him inside: a version of himself, with pale eyes and a calm expression.
"You shouldn't have come back," the copy murmured, without moving its lips.
Miguel staggered back, but Elisa held him back.
"What is it?"
He didn't answer.
The vision faded, and the liquid darkened again.
Pedro, who had been watching from a distance, saw something emerge from the fountain—a small stone engraved with the same symbol as the medallion's cracks.
He picked it up, without warning, and put it in his pocket.
His gaze vanished for a few seconds, and when he returned, there was a strange gleam in his eyes.
Minutes before midnight, the city shuddered as if breathing.
The tower bell rang twelve times—but no one was there to pull the rope.
The lights went out, one by one, until only the red glow coming from the fountain remained.
Elisa noticed something strange: the shadows were moving in the opposite direction of the light.
They walked alone, crawling along the walls, writhing silently.
Dr. Vasconcelos muttered to himself:
"The blood is the mirror. The city is being absorbed by itself."
Miguel looked at the medallion and realized: the cold had returned.
This time, it wasn't just his.
The entire city seemed encased in a layer of invisible ice.
The sound that followed wasn't human.
A dull roar pierced the air—like thunder trapped underground.
The fountain exploded, spraying blood in all directions.
And from the center of it, a faceless female shadow emerged, holding something in her hands: a cracked mirror.
The Guardian didn't speak.
But her presence said it all:
"You have opened the way. Now, all that remains is to remember what was forgotten."
The vision dissipated in an instant.
When the group regained consciousness, the square was empty—and the blood had disappeared.
But where the fountain had once gushed, a new rune, carved in stone, now shone.
The third seal.
Miguel fell to his knees.
Elisa hugged him weakly.
Pedro, silently, touched the pocket where he kept the stone—and a faint smile crossed his face.