That night, the winds were more than a mere breeze; they were sounds intersecting with the silence of the abandoned village, stirring the doors of ruined houses and slapping their windows as if whispering old messages. Salma did not chase the winds on purpose, yet she felt herself being pushed toward something she did not yet understand, something hiding within the yellowed-blue walls of the village.
In a small wooden box, she received a mysterious letter: an old silver ring, a rusty key, and a photograph of a woman wearing a white wedding dress. Her face did not smile, yet her eyes gleamed with something like blood. It was not just a gift, but a silent invitation to confront the past.
Salma entered the abandoned house, untouched by anyone for decades. Dust covered everything, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling, yet she did not feel fear—until she saw the dress, hanging on a cracked hanger, trailing on the floor as if it were alive. There was no blood on the floor, but the hem bore a tiny red stain—a mere glimpse, yet enough to make her heart skip a beat.
She cautiously touched a piece of the fabric. For a moment, she felt heat beneath her fingers, as if the old blood had awakened after a hundred years. No image of the woman appeared before her, but something watched her from the shadows.
Outside, a man in the village was preparing a wedding invitation for his son. He did not know that the ink he wrote his name with would become a carrier of the curse. Tiny drops of blood appeared on the edge of the table, then on the paper, then on his hand, as if the past insisted on touching the present.
Salma did not yet know that a single touch was enough to open the door to nightmares. That night, men's dreams would never be the same, and the blood would leave nothing untouched.
Somewhere, far away, the cursed bride smiled.