Quicksand of Fate

Darkness,

Everything is dark and suffocating, pressing in on him like a predatory beast.

Cold,

The cold air stings his skin, and his hearing picks up eerie, unintelligible sounds from somewhere.

He opened his eyes slowly, the darkness beginning to lift slightly. Through his blurred vision, he could see the snow swirling in slow, soundless spirals. The flakes caught faint traces of light before melting and merging into the monstrous night.

Lorenzo felt the cold seep into his bones, but he couldn't move. His limbs felt numb, as though he were in another body. He could only feel the sharp, nerve-numbing cold and something warm and wet on his forehead, sticky and slow, though his mind refused to process what it was.

His breathing ragged, his vision blurry. Nearby, a voice pierced the silence, its tone hoarse with crying and full of despair, calling out in what sounded like an irrational hallucination. The cold made him shiver, cutting off the voice and blurring the words.

"Ma...cel....o,... M...a...s....o, M...s..l...."

The voice scratched at his senses like rusty iron, pulling him closer, though he couldn't understand what it was saying. Slowly, he turned his head in labored movements, as if the darkness itself was trying to keep him in place. Yet, his body moved as though it were acting independently.

His eyes fell on two figures, only centimeters away from him.

A child? He couldn't see clearly, only guessing it might be a child.

A child sat frozen in the cold, uncomfortable and still, his pale white hair tangled and matted with blood that clung to his skin.

The child appeared to be around ten years old. His trembling arms hugged a younger child, perhaps five or six, in his lap. The older child clung to the younger one as if trying to shield him from the cold.

Marcelo.

This time, the name formed in his mind—not because he understood what the boy was saying, but because the name appeared when he looked at the younger, unresponsive child. The older child's cries continued, scratching at his ears and consciousness, a mix of incomprehensible words trembling in the cold, fear, and pain.

Lorenzo blinked, his head throbbing violently under the weight of the scene. A dim light shone on the child's face from outside, illuminating his sunken, tear-filled eyes and cheeks stained with dirt and blood. The name echoed in Lorenzo's ears, growing louder, though the voice remained soft, desperate, still broken and incomprehensible.

Marcelo.

"Ma...ce...l… Ma... m...rrce....lo…"

He tried to move again, but the heat on his forehead seeped into his eyes, blinding him. He wiped it away weakly, his hand coming away wet and red.

Blood.

But before his mind could process more, the shadows around him deepened. The air grew heavier and colder until his breath felt like knives scraping against his throat.

The sound of the child's crying shifted, becoming distant and hollow, like a fading memory slipping into obscurity. The snow continued to fall, its flakes blending with the blood that stained the child's white hair.

Somewhere far away, a strange scream pierced the darkness, echoing through the narrow space. It was the sound of something enormous and terrifying—something unseen, but felt in every fiber of his being. The noise seemed to rise outside his consciousness, but his mind could no longer register it. Darkness and silence began to swallow his awareness.

In the final moment, the body he inhabited opened its mouth and spoke the older child's name.

The child lifted his face, stained with tears, blood, and ash, and their gazes met across the void. It felt as though their eyes locked together, the darkness pulling him in. The child seemed to say something, but Lorenzo's mind could not grasp it, surrendering without holding on any longer.

Everything sank into cold, dark oblivion.

Then Lorenzo opened his eyes slowly, the darkness of his room surrounding him.

The name lingered on his lips like a ghost. But suddenly, his mind refused to recall it. It was as if his thoughts had frozen, and he kept staring blankly at the ceiling, his mind absent and wandering. At the same time, the emptiness in his heart deepened, as if winter had taken root within him. He didn't even notice the tears, defying his eyelids, as they stained his face without permission.