The night was never the same after the stranger's arrival.
There was something different in the air—not just fear, but a dense unease, a kind of electricity that made the silence vibrate as if the air itself breathed along with the city.
Since their encounter in the square, Miguel hadn't slept. He spent hours studying the parchment the stranger had given him. The runes drawn there seemed different from the ones they'd found in the forgotten building: older, deeper, as if engraved with divine intent.
Each line radiated a barely perceptible glow under the lamplight—and the medallion reacted, pulsing in response.
Elisa watched closely.
Wearness etched her face, but there was a steady light in her eyes. She wrote on a yellowed sheet of paper:
"Do you feel it too? The air seems... alive."
Miguel nodded.
"The medallion won't stop. It's as if the stranger has awakened something that was dormant."
Outside, the city breathed in murmurs.
Residents walked back and forth, leaving notes on doors—warnings, stories, pleas.
Some wrote repetitive phrases, as if to engrave them in their own minds: "My name is Clara." "I have a son named Tomás." "Don't forget."
Others, unable to cope with the confusion, tore up the papers, convinced that remembering was too dangerous.
But what disturbed Miguel most wasn't the people's fear—it was the absolute silence that enveloped the stranger.
Since that night, no one had seen him again.
They said he had disappeared into the northern streets, where the fog lingered even at sunrise.
Others swore they saw him walking on the dry river, leaving footprints that glowed like embers.
And, like any city on the brink of collapse, factions emerged—each with its own interpretation.
The next morning, Dr. Vasconcelos called an emergency meeting in the old Council House, a stone building covered in ivy and cracks.
The walls still held portraits from before the curse—men in suits, smiling women, the glow of a city that no longer existed.
The hall was packed.
On one side were those who followed the Doctor, defenders of reason and science—who saw in the medallion and the runes a physical anomaly, an explainable phenomenon.
On the other were those who believed in the stranger, now called "the Guardian's Pilgrims"—simple people, overcome by faith and despair.
Among them were teary-eyed children and old men who had already forgotten half their lives.
Miguel stood in the middle.
Not because he wanted to, but because he no longer knew who to believe.
Dr. Vasconcelos began writing on a slate board, in the firm, impatient handwriting that characterized him:
"This man has brought instability. The medallion's reactions have intensified since his arrival.
He is a catalyst, not a savior. We need to isolate him."
Elisa replied, writing on a piece of paper large enough for everyone to see:
"But what if he knows something that can help us? Perhaps the runes he brought are the key."
The room divided.
Some nodded, others began banging on the tables in silent protest.
The echo of hands against the wood sounded like thunder in the empty Council House.
Peter, always the most observant, timidly stood up and showed his notebook.
He had drawn a sequence of runes based on those they had seen on the parchment.
Among them, a circular symbol appeared repeatedly, always next to the medallion.
"I think this is a connecting point," he wrote.
"Maybe… a map, or a seal. Something that keeps the Guardian trapped."
The Doctor frowned irritably and replied in rapid letters:
"Trapped? Or contained?
You speak as if she were real."
Elisa immediately countered:
"What if she is? Everything we've experienced so far can't be explained by science alone."
The air seemed to tremble.
The lamps swayed, casting dancing shadows across the cracked walls.
For a moment, Miguel had the sensation that the ancient portraits were looking at them—dead eyes taking on a momentary glow, as if remembering the sound of a lost life.
The discussion was interrupted when a loud knock echoed on the front door.
Three slow, rhythmic knocks, as if someone was waiting to be invited in.
Everyone looked at each other.
Pedro ran to the entrance, hesitantly, and when he opened it, a draft of cold air invaded the room.
Outside, there was only one object on the ground:
a symbol drawn in charcoal, identical to the runes on the parchment.
And in the center, a strand of gray hair bound with black wax.
Dr. Vasconcelos turned pale.
He wrote, trembling:
"It's his. The stranger is watching us."
The silence that followed was absolute.
No one dared move.
Outside, the fog covered the city like a thick blanket.
And, for the first time, Miguel had the feeling that the entire city was being watched—not from the outside, but from within.
That night, the streets became even emptier.
The lamps burned with a bluish light, and the shadows of the houses stretched unnaturally, as if something were crawling beneath them.
Children dreamed of hooded figures, and the elderly began to forget their own names upon waking.
A metallic smell, like oxidized iron, permeated the air.
Miguel remained awake, the medallion on the table.
The object pulsed slowly, as if breathing.
Suddenly, a rune formed on its surface—a simple, curved line, similar to an eye.
Elisa, watching through the window, wrote hurriedly:
"This has never happened before."
Miguel nodded.
"I think the stranger wants us to see something.
Or maybe he's guiding us to the next step."
Before he could continue, a faint sound pierced the air—a crack, like stone breaking.
The walls vibrated.
And, outside, a white light rose on the horizon, coming from the direction of the forest.
The same forest where the first runes had been found.
Peter woke to the flash, running toward them with a panicked expression.
"The light is drawing symbols in the sky," he wrote.
"As if the city itself were the parchment."
Miguel stood, feeling the air grow heavy.
"So that's it. The Guardian is responding."
Elisa looked at the medallion, now burning like liquid fire.
And wrote the last sentence of the night:
"Or maybe... she's remembering."