No Response

The air in Elena’s cottage was thick with the scent of dried herbs and something else, something ancient and unsettling, like dust disturbed in a tomb. Sofía sat opposite the old woman, her hands clenched in her lap, the chill of the night seeping into her bones despite the sputtering fire. Elena’s eyes, like polished obsidian, seemed to hold a thousand secrets, each one a tiny shard of darkness.

“You hear them,” Elena stated, her voice a low murmur, barely disturbing the quiet. It wasn't a question.

Sofía nodded, her throat tight. "They started a few weeks ago. Just… whispers. Then they began calling my name." She shivered, the memory of those disembodied voices, insidious and intimate, sending a tremor through her.