Sometimes I wonder what weighs more—the silence, or the absence of another voice. It's a heavy silence, seeping into every corner like the dust that settles on furniture untouched for years. It seeps into my skin, making me feel like part of this place, as if my body were just another piece of this empty mansion. This silence seeps into me until there's no difference between my body and the space around me. I am part of this mansion, of these walls, of these rooms that only echo my footsteps, my breath, my whispers, my sobs.
The forest, beyond these trees rising like walls, is no different. The trunks seem to whisper among themselves, rustling in conversations that never include me. Even the leaves seem to be bidding life farewell.
Far from the house, like someone fleeing an unforgivable failure, I walk among the underbrush, hoping to hear something more. Maybe a word carried by the wind, a greeting hidden in a gryphon's song, the whinny of a unicorn, or the roar of a liger. But the forest, like the mansion, remains silent, denying me all connection. There is never an answer for me. The world goes on as if I were invisible, like a ghost haunting a place that has already moved on without me.
And yet, I long for connection. Desperately. There's a need inside me, a hunger that eats away from deep within. I try to fill my days with the company of books, their spines aligned like old friends waiting for me on dusty shelves. But no matter how surrounded I am by words, I can't fill this emptiness. Their voices are finite, their conversations long over before I even open them. No matter how many times I read their pages: I can't change their stories, I can't force the characters to speak to me.
I've tried to ease my loneliness by shaping copies of myself. I mold them, breathe life into them in a way that should make me feel powerful, as if I had control over something in this world where, in truth, I control nothing. But even with all my creations, the void remains. It's a hollow power, without real meaning.
The copies aren't enough. Even if they walk like me, speak like me, they are not me. They lack the spark of life I long to see in them. They are empty reflections, images in a mirror that never return a true gaze. Sometimes I even regret having had the chance to experience something different with a real person. Had I remained ignorant, maybe this emptiness in my chest wouldn't feel so deep.
I watch my copies move through the house and forest. If I were one of them, I'd be laughing or whispering about how pathetic my situation is. They should bring me comfort, but all they do is remind me how deeply alone I am. They have no thoughts of their own, no feelings. And the most painful part: there is no real connection between them and me. They are only shadows of what I yearn for, reflections of my lack, and each one of them highlights my loneliness. They are empty... just as I feel inside. They're a constant reminder of what I'll never have: true companionship.
My copies moved about the room, carrying out their tasks with mechanical precision. One of them glanced at me briefly, but her eyes were as empty as the echo of my thoughts. I stood there, watching them from a distance, wondering if I had ever been like that—lifeless, emotionless, just following orders. I clenched my fists, wanting to scream, but all that came out was a stifled sigh. Surrounded by versions of myself, I had never felt more alone. Living off memories was all I had left.
Sometimes I wonder if it's worse to be surrounded by these copies or to be completely alone. At least when I'm alone, I don't have to pretend there's any form of company. Even though I tell myself that solitude is easier to endure, every time I see them move through the room, something twists in my chest. Pretending that their empty presence offers me something resembling companionship is a punishment worse than silence.
One of the copies looked up and her lifeless eyes met mine for a second. What did she see when she looked at me? Did she know how much it hurt to see her mimic me without understanding what it means to be me?
I took a deep breath, trying to smother the hollow feeling. Part of me wished that just one of them would speak to me, break this cycle of loneliness and say something real. Something that hadn't come from me. But that never happened. I slammed my hand on the table, hoping for a reaction. Nothing. Just the sound of books falling to the floor, scattered, as lost as I was.
At that moment, my hand curled into a fist as I stood at the center of the room. One of the copies walked past me, dusting the shelves with automatic motions, not even acknowledging my presence. In a fit of frustration, I swept a pile of books off the table, sending them crashing to the ground. The copy paused, looked at the mess for a moment, then calmly bent down to pick them up one by one. I turned away, the anger rising in my chest. Even in these moments of rebellion, I couldn't break the silence that surrounded me.
With them, I had to maintain the illusion. Pretend I didn't notice they were nothing but hollow shadows. Act as though I were content with their presence, when in truth, every second beside them only deepened my solitude.
I've grown used to this emptiness, to this echo of life I try so hard to fill. But I can't help but wonder: how long can I bear it? How much longer can I live surrounded by soulless reflections before I become one of them myself? Could fate take pity on me and grant me the chance to reclaim the companionship I lost?
Keeping watch over the ligers, hoping one might bring back a prize we could negotiate, I found myself once again trying to lose myself in the pages of old books. Usually, stories of heroes and fantastical worlds. Seeing things from another perspective, an idea suddenly came to me: what makes my copies any different from the weapons wielded by so many characters in those books?
Always focused on the protagonists, I had never stopped to notice the presence of a blacksmith who, in both situation and story, resembled me deeply. Alone in the depths of a cave, hammering without rest. The difference was, he enjoyed his work. That man created countless things, none of which could ever return a word to him.
Digging deeper into the story, I discovered that character didn't care about belonging to something, or having someone who truly understood him or with whom to share his thoughts, fears, and hopes. He didn't see that as something wonderful—but as something utterly terrifying. Because opening up to someone also meant the risk of being hurt. Maybe, deep down, that was his greatest fear. And perhaps that's the real reason he stayed alone.
It's ironic to shun something others crave, but being alone is neither easier nor more desirable for me right now. I need someone who can hurt me. And how could I ever find that, if this place refuses to let anyone near me? If I could speak with that blacksmith, the first thing I'd tell him is that such safety comes at a price: no one can save you if you always keep the doors closed. Sometimes I wonder if he chose isolation, if he preferred solitude out of fear of what he might lose. But I... I need to be saved. No matter how much time passes, no matter how many attempts I make, I won't accept solitude as a part of me.
Even lying on a mountain of bodies, screaming questions into the air, silence is the only answer I receive. I want someone to hear me, but I know there is no one to reply. And although the blacksmith's story kept me entertained for a while, after everything someone like me has experienced in the little time I've been given, it's not strange to return once more to being haunted by the little I still hold in my hands. Isn't it?
The place's night cycle came, and in that endless night, the four seasons were enough to destroy the bodies of hundreds of thousands of copies—resigned not to complain, not to move, not to scream in pain.
As the place returned to its usual appearance, I lay on the bed, processing what had happened, until finally, something inside me seemed to break. Crying became my only solace and, after the tears, came rage.
With no one to console me—or at least scold me—why not blame the copies around me? Why not hold them accountable for my wretched actions?
When I opened my eyes to a new day, something had changed. I noticed it in my mood, in my unleashed decisions, in my authoritarian demeanor. I began to torture my copies to release my anger. With my own hands, I tore their skin into strips, screamed insults at them that, if written here, would stain the rest of this text. It's not that I never meant to write them; it's just that now those words seem unnecessary.
Deep inside me, in that moment, I only wanted someone to share in my suffering and frustration. I wanted to unleash my fury in the truest sense of the word: break bones, expose organs, tear off limbs... as the only cure for my affliction. It was the only way to understand myself, to let it out, to purge my fury, even if the next day there wasn't a trace of my actions. Though, perhaps, my copies were far more aware of my pain and suffering than any other creature. After all, they laughed and suffered when I didn't make myself invisible.
In the light of a red field, under a melancholic day, sitting on the steps of a house, elbows on my knees and head in my hands, I simply sat and thought, staring at the black forest that rose in the distance.
They—my copies—laugh and suffer, but they also work hard when ordered to. That's what led me to a conclusion: if the human head I had lost by falling asleep came from beyond the forest, then there must be whole humans out there. Come to think of it, there was never a logical reason why I should be alone in this world.
Perhaps, beyond that immense forest, there existed a place where I could have fun, where I could be happy. Until now, my anger, sadness, depression, and other torments hadn't allowed me to clearly see that goal.
With a new idea in mind, determined not to keep waiting for chance to knock on my door, the world around me trembled under the march of hundreds of copies I sent into the forest. From that moment on, everything became clear: with a purpose to fulfill, I was no longer willing to tolerate failure or inconvenience.
Standing before my copies, as the original I was, I let my ego rise to the point where my whims, motives, and desires became absolute commands to be obeyed by right.
Giving my feelings a more productive outlet, I first tried to burn the black forest, but realized it was black because it already burned each night. Then I tried to cut it down, tree by tree, but not even all my copies working to exhaustion could carve a dent into the trunk of the smallest tree. The only thing left was to explore the forest, but its maze of branches and roots seemed endless. I ventured to climb the tallest tree I could find and, though I reached the top, I discovered I was only halfway there.
I persisted in my escape attempts for countless days, to the point where many of my copies began disobeying me, seeing the tasks they were assigned as pointless: cutting trees, digging tunnels, building towers, or being launched by catapults into random places. Until, finally, something caught my attention.
The attitude of the big cats. The way they moved through the "ever-changing" forest seemed to be the key to altering the circumstances. After all, if one of them had brought the human head, then they must know something... or hold the answer.
These beasts, more than mere animals, seemed like guardians protecting the place. The idea of capturing one and forcing it to speak crossed my mind, but something within me said they didn't deserve that. None of them showed aggression toward me, no matter how much I interfered with their daily tasks. But there was one in particular, a liger, who moved with stealth and carefully observed the copies that followed him. That liger hid more than his cautious demeanor let on.
Many books I've read agree that felines are capricious creatures, even among themselves: they don't form groups or share secrets, but they understand each other perfectly without needing to speak. For now, both the unmated males and females dedicate themselves to hunting. Thirty-two in total: twenty males and twelve females, dyed black to hide the white parts of their fur.
Very few returned once I saw them leave, and none brought back food other than unicorn or griffon meat. Only after many days, watching from the lake's edge, did I see again the same beast with whom I had negotiated for the human head. The body it carried was strange: its flesh looked unappetizing, and eating it seemed like it could make him sick.
Even so, the liger kept his distance. He avoided any attempt at negotiation, carefully cleaned his fur, and I watched him disappear into his cave.
Maybe it was... or maybe not.
Curiosity devoured me, anxiety consumed me like fire. I didn't need to negotiate with the liger if I didn't want to; it didn't worry me too much. A single hair from the body would be enough for me to resurrect it.
Later that night, with shifting weather looming on the horizon, I watched him fall asleep thanks to my invisibility. The problem was that, inside the cave, there was no trace of the body. Not even between his teeth.
"Greedy beast!" I shouted at the feline from the depths of my heart.
Frustrated, I remembered how the massive animal had licked his claws before falling asleep, and then I felt a ray of hope. Between his claws, sharp as daggers, there could well be remnants of flesh. When he retracted them, I saw something begin to move unnaturally. It wasn't blood or saliva—it was a viscous substance that rose slowly.
The substance, whatever it was, was alive. It was in pain. It was weakening.
It wouldn't survive long, but a single drop of my blood was enough to fill it with life... and make it crave control of my body.
The sounds it made as it entered through my hand were revolting, but the situation was unique, and full of promise. As the slimy creature fed, I began the return to the great library. I had to stop several times along the way, to keep its voracious hunger from consuming me entirely.
In the process, I ordered my copies to feed it and began building a small laboratory.
If it had been a body like the previous one, preparations for the resurrection ceremony would have been ready in the blink of an eye. But the fact that this entity moved, and chose to feed, made one thing clear: it was alive... and it was unlike anything I'd ever known.
Anticipating what might happen, I found myself sitting on the floor, legs crossed and back against the cold wall. In my hands, I held an old book; its yellowed pages crackled with each turn. Immersed in that forbidden knowledge, I devoured every word about living parasitic entities, trying to understand the process of invasion and assimilation.
But only when the body of my copy was completely overtaken—its limbs rigid like an empty shell and its skin torn from within by the voracious presence consuming it—did the miracle occur.
My fingers clutched the edges of the book tightly, but I didn't turn the page. My breathing turned erratic as the figure emerged, warping between shadows and flickers of an unstable matter. I couldn't look away, captivated by the fascination. Something new was being born before my eyes, something impossible to define.
The entity finally seemed to gain its own will and set out to claim the body. Though it retained the curves of my original form, I noticed that, almost deliberately, it altered several features: it reduced the size of the breasts, darkened the skin tone, sharpened the facial expressions. The legs became more delicate, long and subtle.
The changes continued. The hair darkened. But the most unsettling transformation occurred in its eyes. I watched, transfixed, as the whites disappeared, sinking into an abyssal blackness that devoured all reflection.
I felt the tension as I looked toward its pubic area. I half-expected, with some anxious curiosity, that a protrusion might emerge, but it didn't. The creature retained a feminine form.
But it couldn't be a simple woman. It was something else. Something different.
Pushing aside the piles of books with disdain, the new creature took a breath and looked around in fear, until its eyes met mine.
Stunned by the terror reflected in its gaze, my new guest seemed incapable of moving.
Still keeping my distance—this could easily be a trap—I made one of my other copies touch her and even slap her. At the sharp crack of the strike, the entity collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
As I approached, I could see her vacant eyes. Her chest, barely rising, looked almost still. The parasitic entity, now in control of one of my bodies, seemed to need more time to awaken. After everything it had survived, it struck me as odd that it might die from a mere slap.
I wasn't even sure if such a being could faint under those circumstances, but the remedy I chose was to throw a bucket of icy water and snow over her.
I didn't want to torture my new form of entertainment, but I was beginning to grow impatient.
The creature, naked on the floor, opened her eyes the moment the cold hit, as if coming back to life. She let out a high-pitched cry and curled up, arms and legs trembling, breathing with difficulty.
When she realized it was me who had awakened her, she also understood that I meant to help: I offered her a blanket and ordered the other copies to clean the place. While her body regained warmth, she still didn't speak or try to communicate. That made me consider dissecting the parasite and trying again with a more receptive body.
But I hadn't said anything either. A proper conversation required intention from both sides. So, I had no choice but to break the silence with a laugh as I approached the desk.
"There's no description of your behavior in any of these books... Tell me, what are you?" I asked, taking a seat on the table.
If I had to be the one to start talking and asking questions, then I might as well give the impression that I was the mistress of the place.
"A demon!" she replied, still catching her breath. Her voice was different from mine—softer, more enchanting. "I'm a demon, and my name is Gremory."
"And… what exactly is a demon?" I asked. Even with an entire library of knowledge at my fingertips, I couldn't recall a conclusive definition for such an entity.
My eyes locked with hers. Her body trembled slightly at the question, but there was no fear. Something darker and deeper held her still. It was determination. Describing the scene, it felt as if I were a liger, and she a unicorn. The food chain made us natural enemies: I, the predator; she, the prey. Yet her demeanor suggested the opposite—she was seeking an accord.
"Good question, although… the answer's a bit complicated," she said, seizing the opportunity to speak. "Even I, who know the present, the past, and the future, can only tell you what I am not."
Her answer echoed through the room, making the air heavy. Then she let out a low, almost mocking laugh. She rose from the floor and let the blanket fall, approaching as she toyed with one of the books on the desk.
She always kept her gaze lower than mine. Her movements were slow and open, as if trying to show she meant no harm.
Even the scent of her hair was different from mine.
"Go on," I demanded, still unsatisfied. After all, someone who claimed to know time itself ought to have more to say.
Her hands trembled as she approached. And though she knelt between my open legs, she seemed to know that the answers she had—those unspoken words—would stir something deep within me.
Arousing my curiosity prolonged her life, and she was doing it well.
"The human form is certainly convenient," she said, resting her head on the back of my hand, which lay on my right thigh. "But I'm not human. I feed on them. As an entity, I originate from the third plane, and by nature, I'm the opposite of beings like you. Demons live with the need to devour, destroy, and consume residual energies that humans project through emotion. We revive whenever someone fears our names, and we seek to ascend to the material plane to grow stronger…"
Such a revelation was hard to ignore. Of course, if you simplify the hundreds of thousands of concepts and definitions in the books about demons, you could reach a similar conclusion. But while I hadn't recognized her, she had recognized me.
If once my copies could laugh at me, now I would laugh at them—and for the second time. Strange entities coming to this place, and I alone able to enjoy and learn from them, was beginning to excite me deeply.
Since I was still wearing my maid outfit, I decided it would be best to lift my dress above my waist, letting Gremory's gaze fall upon my nakedness.
I could feel her breath on my sex, could see in her eyes the desire to sink her tongue there. But for some reason, good things deserve to wait—especially in front of my copies. I didn't yet feel confident enough to have sex with a demon, at least not without certain preparations. After all, not long ago I had promised myself not to let my desires take such control that they would end up harming me.
Gently, I caressed her face with my right hand and guided her to rise, prompting her eyes to meet mine, urging her to stop seeing me as someone to fear.
Before sex, I decided to do something I had always longed for with my copies, something that was routine for them but not for me: we were two women eating together, organizing and cleaning the house, then we went for a walk so she could explore the surroundings.
We bathed in the lake, climbed to the mountain's peak, spotted unicorns asleep. A place so dull to me appeared as a wondrous discovery to her.
When we returned to the house, soaked from the rain, I decided it was best to go without clothes to avoid wetting the floor further. She imitated me, and together we left our garments by the door.
We headed straight for the bath to offset the temperature difference. The feeling of soap on skin was impossible to ignore.
We ran into the bathroom at the end of my room. We played, we laughed. We were friends, and I could swear it: in her eyes, there was no longer any trace of submission. Gremory looked at me as an equal.
I must admit, my lustful curiosity still pulsed strong, especially with the perfect excuse of soaping, feeling, and exploring a demon's body.
Under the warm water of the shower, she let me touch and caress her, and did the same to me. She cleaned my skin with natural sensuality. The tension between us was so thick it seemed there was no other option but to experience each other.
I could feel that moment described in so many old books—the instant two beings pass from friendship to love.
Gremory paid for my hospitality with stories, keeping me fascinated with tales I had never heard. I took notes with paper and pencil, even on more intimate topics: I learned the art of desire, how to cherish a caress, and the genuine care of someone who truly wants to see you enjoy.
From one topic to another, we drifted into more banal and personal conversations. She told me about her private life, about the ever-changing forest on the other side, about how she wasn't the only demon, and about the countless human souls wandering in hopes of being accepted into the kingdom of heaven: The Heavens. That very place where I lived and woke up every day.
Can you believe it? In the kingdom of heaven, all humans from the earthly realm live and die with the hope of entering. Even demons are curious about getting in. And I'm the only one who wants out.
Even if what we had wasn't a true friendship or a pure love, we shared a purpose.
When it seemed she had run out of things to say to me, she was the one who asked a question:
"Didn't you enjoy it when my head was between your legs?"
"Of course I did. In fact, I confess it turned me on a lot," I answered, relishing the intimate moment.
"Really?" she asked, eyes caught between doubt and mischief. "Then why did you stop me?"
"I haven't told you yet, but... if I fall asleep, the night and time destroy everything in this place. I didn't want to lose the chance to enjoy these little things. Not after being alone for so long."
Gremory seemed to understand. For a moment, she even put herself in my shoes... and said that, had she been in my situation, she would have done the same.
"Have you ever come?" she asked, making my heart leap in my chest. I even thought of pretending I hadn't heard and acting like nothing happened, but she repeated the question, forcing me to answer truthfully.
Even though I hadn't planned to have sex with her—not at that moment, at least, since I still had the energy to keep talking and playing—I threw myself into a kiss.
Seeing how hard it would be to achieve my goals, I decided to ignore the regrets that might take root in my conscience for jumping from love to sex so quickly. I pushed aside any feeling that might hold me back and, while she exposed her breasts to my reach, I hungrily bent down to suck her nipples.
Trying to control my insatiable desire, I warned her:
"If we keep going... I'll burn through all my energy. I'll be exhausted, and we'll rush the moment when I can't stay awake anymore."
Looking at me tenderly, she used my hesitation to sweeten my thoughts, to calm me and say:
"Silvia, indulge yourself. Now that I still have strength, I want to give you the best of me. You haven't noticed, but my body ages, unlike yours. Here, where no one fears me, my existence evaporates like water under the sun."
I tried to tell her how much I didn't want to lose her, but she stopped my lips with her fingers and continued:
"When I die, I plan to return to the third plane and send others of my kind to help you get out of here."
Without removing her finger from my lips, the moment she finished speaking, she kissed me. Her hands began to roam my body, brushing off my fears like useless weeds. I felt her breath in my mouth, her tongue entering and dancing inside me. She wanted to be the stream that washed away my worries... and she succeeded.
She lowered her head. Her tongue didn't linger on my breasts or my belly. She went straight to licking me between my legs. I had repressed my arousal for so long that, with just one lick, I came. Curling my legs and gripping her hair, she didn't lift her mouth from my sex. I heard her shamelessly swallow every drop of fluid pouring from me.
Looking up, eyes still dark and gleaming, Gremory began to slide her fingers into me. I gave in without resistance. First one, then two... and when I felt the third, I tried to resist. I wanted to prolong that moment, but then she smacked my breasts hard, making me yield. With my own fingers, I spread my labia to make it easier for her.
I was being transgressed by a demon. I let myself be dominated, let myself be fucked. And that fed the perversion in my mind. With three fingers inside me and my sex exposed, she sucked my clit again, hard. The suction was so intense, I swear I felt my heart being pulled into her mouth.
Once again, she took hold of my orgasm. Her fingers reached deep inside me. I could do nothing but grunt and cry out with each spasm that rocked me. I tried to prop myself up on my elbows to see what she was doing to me, but I ended up collapsing onto my back, overwhelmed by pleasure.
Apparently, without the pressure of my gaze, Gremory took the liberty of probing my anal sphincter with a fourth finger. The area was fully lubricated, a result of my second explosion of pleasure, which made it easy for her to slide in naturally.
By the time I regained some of my senses, all four fingers were deep inside, and her face was above mine. I didn't even have time to breathe; she surprised me with a voracious kiss while simultaneously starting to move her hand with an upward force.
A prisoner of moans, the force of her hand was so intense that it lifted my hips off the bed, while her mouth pinned my head to the pillow. Within seconds, a third orgasm overtook me without warning.
If the true nature of a demon revealed itself under extreme circumstances, Gremory smiled wickedly as she took complete control of my body. It was my third orgasm in a very short time. I had to struggle to regain the initiative if I wanted to enjoy and not just be conquered.
I didn't want to resist her violently, but when I tried to push through my own spasms, she grabbed my hair and twisted me around, leaving me on my knees on the bed. Despite my protests and squirming, she pulled her fingers out of me and smacked my ass with all her strength, still holding my head down against the pillow.
My moans of pleasurable pain were muffled by the fabric. The heat from my flushed skin ran down my legs. I was so aroused that fluids were spilling out of me uncontrollably.
Gremory stopped pulling my hair to straddle me with greater determination, though she kept a firm grip on my wrists, pinned behind my back.
Running her hand from my clit to my ass, I felt her exploring my holes, smearing my own fluids across the whole area.
I begged her to stop, told her that if she kept going, I'd come again. But far from stopping, she became even more inflamed. She pressed her thumb against my anus and, in a matter of seconds, pushed it in all the way.
She didn't just vibrate it; she moved it in and out, giving my vagina a chance to rest... or so I thought. Every time I felt safe from another orgasm, she brushed my clit with her index finger, keeping me on the edge of explosion.
To resist, I clenched my anal sphincter as hard as I could. But whenever I relaxed just a little, she pushed me back to the brink. She sped up her movements, and I had no time to recover. When I finally chose to surrender to the fourth orgasm, lifting my hips and relaxing my anal muscles, she refused to let me come.
Living on the edge of a constant orgasm was maddening.
She kept thrusting her finger with force, and small waves of pleasure shot straight to my clit. I screamed aloud, offering up my ass with greater abandon. And just as her finger slipped out of me, a precise smack on my clit made me collapse onto the bed, a victim of my fourth orgasm.
She didn't let me go. Even though I had no strength to get back on my knees, while still lying on my back, Gremory reinserted her thumb between my cheeks, moving it up and down while stimulating my clit with her middle and index fingers. Within seconds, the fifth orgasm hit.
She moved from my right side to my left, and at that moment, I knew that if her less dominant hand had already given me five orgasms... with her dominant one, at least ten more were coming.
She left my ass alone and pressed her thumb into my vagina. This time, I could feel her pushing downward, as if she wanted to split my pelvic bone. With just that motion, my bladder emptied uncontrollably. Technically, without changing her technique, she simply pressed her finger against a specific spot... and that was enough to make me come again.
Her mastery was such that I lost count.
There was a moment I blacked out. I came to with her sex over my mouth.
"For a moment, I thought you'd fallen asleep..." she said, with an embarrassed smile. "Did you like it?"
Her words and tone were those of someone apologizing for getting carried away.
"Of course I did..." I answered the moment she gave me the chance.
With a more cheerful smile, Gremory bounced on the bed, hugged me, and rested her head on my chest. I wished I had her energy, but my eyes were closing. My mind was blank, consumed by extreme exhaustion and a profound emotional peace.
"I'm sorry... I'm about to fall asleep," I murmured. "It was wonderful meeting you. I'd be really sad if I couldn't see you again."
"Then let's not make this a goodbye," she said, sweet and flirty, pinching my nipples to keep me awake. "Silvia, we'll meet again. It's not an empty promise... while you sleep, I'll prepare a gift for you."
I couldn't respond. My eyes closed just as I felt her get up and leave, heading toward the Library of Knowledge.