The wall of blood before me does not reflect my face. It reflects his memories, those I should never have seen.I see hands caressing bodies like wet petals; strokes between horror and tenderness, between love and death.A woman lies motionless, her eyes glowing with the light of a sunset that does not exist, while he whispers her name like a promise of comfort only death can fulfill.The scent of iron and flesh fills everything, yet each drop of blood seems to rhyme with the poetry of a farewell: a kiss on the forehead before life dissolves.
A man falls into his arms, and his lips brush the dying one's forehead in a gesture that is almost romantic, a ritual of goodbye that shakes sanity. Every movement of his hands, every whisper, is a murder turned elegy.The echo of these acts resonates in me, and I feel the vertigo of witnessing something that blends love, guilt, and horror in the same breath.
Then, a whisper cuts through the blood.My daughter's voice, distant and lacerating:"Daddy… did you think you could escape what you created?"
My heart stops. The wall ripples like red liquid, and for a moment everything freezes: memories, horror, time.And when I look ahead, I see him.
The Man with the Harmonica stands there, emerging from the shadows.His eyes hide the infinity of the memories I have seen and those I cannot yet comprehend.He does not speak. He only holds the harmonica, and his presence is a terrible promise: everything I witnessed is only the prelude to what is coming.
My daughter's voice returns, sharp, a thread of condemnation and memory:"Daddy… you must remember everything, or you will never leave this place."
And in that phrase, I understand that the true test is not surviving, but remaining sane while horror reminds me who I am and what I have lost.