The cemetery looked like nothing more than an empty wasteland, its gravestones like tongues stretching toward the darkness, eager to lick the night.
There, in the gloomy, spectral atmosphere, Margarita walked hollow-eyed toward the lone figure waiting for her.
The master stood, his coat billowing in the wind, watching as she approached—coming closer to what she had lost but could never truly recover.
Her steps through the wild grass hissed beneath her feet, a whispering, warning sound, forcing her into an eerie, sepulchral silence.
Shhh.
Shhh.
Shhh.
Each step.
With every footfall, she felt the growing urgency to remain quiet—as if something were hushing her.
Shhh.
Shhh.
Shhh.
Each thought.
The overgrown weeds clawed at her skin, a futile attempt to keep her from moving forward.
Shhh.
Shhh.
Shhh.
Without greeting each other, the two seekers locked eyes.
The master cast a sidelong glance at an open grave, and Margarita followed his gaze.
Inside the pit, a coffin lay open—like a basin, filled with still, murky water.
Somehow, without knowing why, she understood it was meant for her.
"Take off your clothes."
For an instant, she looked at him, confused.
But then, an almost triumphant feeling overtook her.
She remembered why she was here, why she had come in the first place.
And so, without hesitation, without shame, she obeyed.
The master did not resist the urge to look at her—his gaze ran from head to toe.
Then, with a sorrowful expression, he took her by the shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her on the mouth.
Unflinching, she felt the kiss for what it truly was: a kiss of death.
There was no desire.
No affection.
It was a kiss of betrayal.
A kiss of farewell.
With one hand, the master guided her down—lower and lower—until one shattered foot and then the other descendedinto the gelatinous, freezing waters of that eerie baptismal pool, welcoming her as if she were returning home.
Like a child seeking comfort, she gazed up at him, pleading.
"What is your name, Master?"
"Edgar."
"Thank you."
The master, lips twitching in what almost resembled a smile, tried to show her a joy he no longer remembered how to feel.
A distant owl's cry broke the silence, drawing their attention.
And then—the ritual began.
"First, I must open your mind.
You must see again what your eyes have spent years ignoring."
"Yes, Master."
With a firm but gentle pull, he guided her downward—first to a crouch, then lower, until she was sitting in the flooded coffin.
With a swift, agile motion, the master dropped to the floor of the grave.
His touch was delicate as he placed one hand on the back of her neck, the other against her chest.
He could feel it.
The betrayer of all secrets.
The thing that held all her fears.
Her heart.
And as if responding to his touch, something ignited within her solar plexus—something like a small, burning flame.
"This will hurt," he warned, locking eyes with her.
She nodded, lost in his gaze.
And he pushed her under.
Margarita did not close her eyes.
Beneath the water, she watched him.
Above her, tears spilled from his face and fell into the liquid that now swallowed her whole.
A stream of bubbles burst from her mouth, from her nose—
Margarita's eyes widened.
Her hands shot up, scrambling—grasping for him, for the edge of the coffin, for anything.
Desperate, she clawed at his face, at his impassive, unyielding expression.
But he did not let her up.
She thrashed violently.
Her fingers ripped into the walls of dirt beside them, tearing at the soil in a futile attempt to escape.
And then—the burn.
The water rushing into her lungs seared like fire, a scalding agony she had never known.
Then—nothing.
A wave of drowsy warmth spread through her body, an eerie comfort, soothing her from the inside out.
A smile—a real one, full of an unfamiliar happiness—stretched across her lips as everything around her began to darken.
Her body relaxed.
Her struggle ceased.
The cold vanished.
And then—they came.
Figures—women—crawling toward her, their hands slithering through the water like snakes, plunging in, reaching for her.
They pulled her out.
Out of the coffin.
Out of the grave.
Out onto the cemetery soil.
And there, under the pale moonlight, they fed.
They drank from her.
Devoured her.
And as they feasted, the master rose from the grave, his body renewed.
One of the women handed him a wooden mallet.
He took it, crouching before Margarita, snapping his fingers in front of her face.
He spoke.
She couldn't understand him.
Why bother?
She was—
Was she dead?
Was she alive?
The only thing she knew for certain was that she could not breathe.
Something—some force, some weight—had sealed off her nose, her throat, her chest.
She could not inhale.
She could not exhale.
The master spoke again, closer this time.
She found it ridiculous to even try to comprehend his words.
What was the point?
Behind him—behind the witches that flanked his sides—something approached.
Not shadows.
Not ghosts.
Something else.
People.
Children.
Elderly figures.
Luisito...
She thought his name.
And the moment she did—
She heard him cry.
"¡Luisito!"
A small, shadowy figure raced through the others.
Margarita tried to move, but the women—those things that had fed on her—held her down.
"LUIS!"
Her mind screamed.
The force of it sent the master sprawling to the ground.
The witches reeled back, and the shadows dissipated.
And then—Luis was there.
His silhouette, running toward her.
Crying.
A sob so full of desperation and relief it shattered what remained of her fear.
With all her strength, Margarita sat up, arms outstretched, ready to hold him—
To never let him go again.
Luis crashed into her chest.
And the moment he did—
She vomited up the water inside her lungs.
The visions vanished.
Once more, they were alone.
Just the two of them.
In the cemetery.
"But..." she whispered.
"Forgive me, Margarita."
The master swung the mallet down.
With a sickening crack, bone shattered—
And she collapsed at his feet, like a discarded doll.