Miguel was dreaming—but he knew it wasn't a dream.
The sound of the bell vibrated within his mind, slow and deep, until the walls of the world seemed to open.
Around him, the city came alive, bathed in golden light. The houses had open windows, and colorful flowers hung from the balconies. People smiled, chatted, and the air was filled with a musical murmur—voices… real voices.
He walked the streets, recognizing every corner, every stone. It was the same city… but before. Before the silence. Before the curse.
As he passed through the square, he saw a woman standing over the fountain—her face covered by a white veil, her hands raised. Around her, dozens of people knelt in reverence.
The woman spoke, and though the words were soft, each sound vibrated within Miguel as if it were being carved into his memory.
"Forgetfulness is protection.
Remembrance is the price."
The veil fluttered, and Miguel saw something beneath it: black, iris-less eyes, deep as the abyss.
He wanted to run, but the ground opened up, and the city dissolved into mist.
Miguel woke with his body drenched in sweat.
The room was cold, his breathing shallow.
Elisa slept beside him, but something about her seemed different. Her face was too serene, like that of someone in a deep sleep… or dreaming the same dream.
Miguel got up and went to the window.
The city was enveloped in a faint, blue-green glow. The walls of the houses pulsed gently, as if breathing.
In the square, figures walked in circles—the Rememberers, drawing runes on the ground with charcoal, stone, and dried blood.
The markings seemed to emit a barely audible sound, a subterranean melody that called to him.
The medallion, hanging around his neck, began to vibrate.
Miguel held it, and a flash flashed through his mind: the woman in the white veil, standing over the fountain, extending her hand.
The touch was cold, but within it was an irresistible force.
"Return to the beginning," the voice whispered.
"The city needs to remember who was."
In the morning, Miguel told Elisa and Dr. Vasconcelos everything.
They both looked tired—the kind of tiredness that comes not from the body, but from the soul.
Elisa, with deep circles under her eyes, wrote on her clipboard:
"It wasn't just you. Everyone dreamed of her.
The Guardian is showing herself, Miguel.
But… what does 'returning to the beginning' mean?"
Dr. Vasconcelos responded with a hastily written note:
"Perhaps she wants us to find the city's origins.
The first records… the first buildings.
If we know where it began, perhaps we'll understand what she wants to keep forgotten."
Pedro, still pale and silent, watched them with distant eyes. Since he had uttered "Silaren," he had hardly written.
But at that moment, he picked up a piece of charcoal and wrote firmly:
"The beginning is beneath us."
The three looked at each other.
"What does that mean?" asked Elisa.
Pedro continued:
"The runes don't just map the surface.
They draw layers—layers beneath the city.
Tunnels. Ancient rooms.
The current city was built on top of the previous one."
Dr. Vasconcelos closed his eyes, as if confirming an old suspicion.
"So she never wanted us to look up… but down."
As dusk fell, they followed the rune map to the basement of the old church.
The doors creaked, and the smell of mold and wet earth enveloped them.
Makeshift torches illuminated the spiral staircases, too narrow, too ancient.
The air down there seemed trapped in time.
The walls were covered in inscriptions identical to those on the medallion, but there was something different about them—a living, almost organic energy.
Some pulsed faintly, and each beat seemed to echo within Miguel's chest.
The path opened into a large underground chamber.
In the center was a stone table with ancient objects: scrolls, shards of glass, bones.
But what drew the most attention was the mosaic on the floor—a circle of interlocking runes forming a faceless human figure.
Elisa knelt to examine the symbols.
"They are the same as those on the forgotten building... but here they are complete," she wrote.
"It seems... an invocation."
Miguel approached and ran his hand over the cold stones.
The medallion reacted, heating until the air around it distorted.
The runes began to glow, and the chamber was filled with a deep sound, like a distant choir.
Pedro staggered back, his eyes wide.
"She's here," he wrote hurriedly.
"She's trying to remember through us!"
Doctor Vasconcelos watched the phenomenon, fascinated and terrified.
"Perhaps the forgetting wasn't punishment," he murmured.
"Perhaps it was mercy."
Suddenly, the floor shook.
A cold wind swept through the chamber, extinguishing the torches.
Shadows began to move on the walls—old faces, like memories taking shape.
Miguel saw one of them up close: his own face, but older, the eyes empty.
The vision spoke soundlessly, its lips moving slowly:
"You promised to remember. And that everyone would pay."
Miguel recoiled, gasping.
Elisa grabbed his arm, and together they watched the runes rearrange themselves on the floor.
The mosaic now formed a new symbol—identical to the mark the medallion bore on its back.
The Doctor, astonished, wrote:
"This is the Guardian's seal.
It doesn't close—it opens."
The sound of the bell echoed again, this time coming from the depths.
The floor opened in the center of the chamber, revealing a staircase that descended even further.
A hot breath rose, mingled with indistinct voices, like ancient laments.
Miguel looked at his companions.
"If this is the beginning," he wrote, "it is also the end."
Elisa replied firmly:
"Then that's where we should go."
They descended.
The air grew heavy, humid, saturated with a metallic smell.
The walls glowed with a dark liquid, as if the stone itself were bleeding.
The torchlight wavered, revealing primitive designs—human figures with outstretched arms before a being of immense proportions, its face veiled.
At the end of the tunnel, they found a stone door.
In its center, a metal circle engraved with the same symbol as the medallion.
Miguel touched it, and the sound of contact echoed throughout the gallery.
The door slowly swung, releasing a blast of cold air and dust.
On the other side was a vast hall, covered in broken mirrors.
Each mirror reflected not the present, but different versions of the city—alive, in ruins, or submerged in shadow.
And in each reflection, the same white-veiled figure, motionless, watching them.
Pedro fell to his knees.
"She is in all times," he wrote desperately.
"She has never stopped being here."
The medallion shone for the last time and broke in two.
A bright light filled the room, and the voice rang out again—clear, powerful, feminine:
"You called me to remember.
Now you remember what you were.
And what you promised me."
The sound of the mirrors shattering was the last noise before the world plunged into darkness.