And the results showed. I progressed faster than the others. I had already surpassed the fourth-year curriculum and was neck-deep in extracurricular studies. This was my fourth language, and with it came new challenges. It wasn't just memorizing words or rules—it was understanding the logic behind each language, reorganizing my mind as if it were a living library.
Only now, those shelves were a mess. Sometimes the sounds of Udrik mixed with the guttural consonants of Rurh, and soon after, the written symbols of Nahv seemed clearer than the language I was actually trying to study. Separating these mental layers took time. One, two hours a day just to clear the traces of confusion.
After some time reading and studying, I picked up the book and went to the balcony of my room. My steps were slow, the weight of the words still fresh in my mind. I opened the door slowly, feeling the cold wind envelop me like an icy caress. I settled into the rocking chair, letting my body adjust to the gentle rhythm of the back and forth.
Inside, Vera and Nora were still sleeping soundly in my bed, their hair scattered across the sheets, their faces serene in the dim light. It was funny how those two were so attached to me. Even though they were older now, they were like two loyal puppies following me everywhere, asking endless questions, always curious.
I didn't stop them. The truth is, deep down, I needed someone to take care of things. And maybe, just maybe, some quiet company from time to time.
I closed my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply the cold winter air. The snow fell silently outside, painting the world white. Everything seemed to slow down with it. Even my thoughts.
I picked up the cup of cold chocolate I had brought with me and took a sip. The bitter taste contrasted with the sweetness that lingered in the house. It was good. Familiar.
I turned my gaze back to the book resting on my lap. The brown cover was worn, but there was something about it... something different. A silk mark sealed the surface with ritualistic precision. I touched it with my fingers, feeling its texture. In the lower right corner, almost faded, a line of handwritten words caught my attention.
The book in my hands had a curious title: The Mystical Journey, by Tomas Will Lenis.
(So it's a biography?) I thought, frowning. There was something strange about that work.
The cover was an aged brown, with a large silk mark stamped on its surface. In the lower right corner, a phrase caught my eye:
"Time is in constant flux, it is where illusions become reality and reality becomes illusions."
I held the book carefully. It was thick and heavy—too heavy for the number of pages it had, maybe two or three pounds. It looked like an old dictionary, a relic from another time.
I started reading. At first, the story captivated me. But as I progressed, everything began to become confusing—as if the words were dancing in the language of a madman. The confusion was not simple; there was something behind it, a mystery, a trap made of words.
I had to solve it.
I spent hours trying to decipher each sentence, rereading the book several times, at least ten times during the night. Time seemed to stand still, the world outside disappeared as I immersed myself in that mental puzzle.
When dawn came, Vera and Nora appeared, took care of my hygiene, and brought me a hot coffee. I drank it mechanically, without taking my eyes off the book, turning the pages in an almost desperate rush.
The fog of confusion began to dissipate. The pieces slowly fell into place.
I only rested when my body couldn't take it anymore, and as soon as I woke up, I went back to the book.
I copied everything into a blank notebook, organizing the words, trying to make sense of it all.
The book seemed to be divided into three parts—but the mystery still lingered, the messages seemed to hide more than they revealed.
I spent five days immersed in this quest, until I finally felt that I had deciphered the secret.
It was almost midnight when I sat down again on the porch. The thick book rested in my hands, my fingers calloused from time holding the pages carefully. Twelve bookmarks marked important passages scattered throughout the work.
As twilight gave way to creeping darkness, I opened the book to the first marked page. Moonlight streamed through the window, bathing the room in its pale, almost ethereal glow. It was as if the world outside had dissolved into the twilight of night.
Suddenly, the oil lamp on the table went out, plunging everything into dense shadows. For a moment, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I could make out, in the middle of the page, a strange group of symbols that looked like tadpoles lined up—a strange, almost magical writing.
The words were written in a peculiar way, making them difficult to read. They looked like ancient runes, but they were actually simple words in Rurh, albeit written in a style that confused even the most experienced reader.
Suddenly, I heard something—a soft, distant, almost imperceptible sound.
Tick tock... tick tock...
I focused on the noise, mentally counting its beats, each one marking a second.
"133"
Once I had done that, my eyes searched for the second marker, and I prepared to continue.
On the second marker, there was a colorful painting that caught my eye. It was the image of a noble child wearing an impeccable party suit—a white dress shirt, a black vest, and a well-adjusted red tie. In his hands, he held a thick, old-fashioned clock.
His face was clear and handsome, almost perfect, and he seemed to be looking directly at me, as if the painting had a life of its own. A chill ran down my spine; there was something strange about that picture, an uncomfortable feeling I couldn't explain.
Ding, Dong!
The sound of a clock rang out inside the room, coming from somewhere behind me.
I turned to look, my heart beating faster, and when I looked back at the book, I was surprised to see that the boy's mouth in the painting was now slowly opening—I was absolutely certain that it had been closed before.
Fear began to grow inside me, like a knot tightening around my throat. I remembered the words I had read moments before, and cold sweat began to gather on my forehead. But I struggled to remain rational, to not let panic overwhelm me.
The sound of the clock's hands grew louder and faster, until it reached 266 beats. At that moment, with my heart racing, I turned to the third marker.
DING!! DONG!!!
The bell rang louder, echoing through the silent castle.
The air grew heavy. Vera and Nora's calm breathing had disappeared, the murmur of the servants who had been walking through the corridors fell silent, even the insects seemed to have ceased their sounds.
It was as if time itself had stopped, frozen in that endless moment, while the sound of the hands increased their pace, filling the silence with a suffocating and restrictive feeling.