A small wooden home, standing solitary at civilization’s edge, sentinel by the mountain’s brink, veiled in ancient trees that shield it from memory’s grasp. The foul scent of decay wards off prying minds, time itself condemning it to oblivion. No one dares recall its existence, a shadow lingering in history. Yet within, the family clings steadfast to their lineage, embracing their solemn duty: guarding the gateway between the living and the undead, shadows growing stronger, hungrier with each passing century. Behind their home, on damp, fern-laden ground, a wall of stones bears mystical inscriptions known only to those who swear the sacred vow—a noble burden binding them to an abnormal life. The wind whispers through the trees, tales of past, present, and the looming future, shadows dancing in a vigil of forgotten realms.
The flickering light pierces the night, a cruel reminder of the uncertainty veiling every other night here, shadows cavorting on the walls, each flicker a portent of what lies ahead. Leaves rustle against the open window, a haunting symphony gripping my chest, stifling breath and life. The wind, relentless and fierce, foretells change, a tempest reshaping my very essence. My heart races with a frenetic rhythm, a drummer leading an army into the abyss, never returning to the sanctuary of normalcy. Sweat beads despite the chill, taunting, haunting images flooding my mind, daring acknowledgment. Cold creeps, numbing my core, erasing existence. Never truly did I exist. Nothing happened. Nothing ever will.
In the dark of night, I watch my brother wrestle with torment in his sleep, his face contorted. Instinctively, I move to wake him, to rescue him from this nightmare. A cold hand grips my arm, pulling me back with a firm, icy command: “Let him be; he must find his way back.” My uncle’s concerned gaze meets mine, speaking in our ancestral tongue. “Please,” he pleads, concern filling his voice, urging me not to interfere. His grip loosens, leaving me alone in the bedroom as my brother settles, calm. Next time, he asks, turn off the study lamp; “The light hurts,” he explains. I understand; truth always brings pain. It’s easier to dwell in darkness. I resent him.
Morning breaks with the rooster’s call, shrill through the early light. Mother requests we burn joss sticks for our late uncle’s burial, the scent of incense mingling with morning air, homage to the past, to memories clinging like shadows. My brother’s face softens in dawn’s embrace, a confident smile, a promise that night’s battles are his alone, dreams echoing softly between us.