@mc5punk 20 April 2025 more from that month

Short story: The Keeper of Lost Dreams

In the gloomy and decaying city of San Bartolomé, where the fog curled up between the cobbled streets like a spectral mantle, and the street lamps flickered with a wavering light, like dying fireflies, the night stretched out with an oppressive silence. The wind, cold and cutting, moaned between the broken tile roofs and the smoking chimneys, dragging with it the echo of forgotten stories and whispered secrets. The houses, with worn facades and barred windows, seemed to guard a past full of melancholy and mystery. In the heart of this city, in an old stone and wooden building, was the municipal library, a place where time seemed to have stopped. Mr. Varela lived there, a middle-aged man with a thin build and a pale face, marked by years of insomnia. His sunken eyes, of a dull gray, reflected the accumulated fatigue of restless nights. She always dressed in simple and somewhat worn clothes, and her hair, already cropped, fell untidily over her forehead. Varela was the librarian, a meticulous and reserved man, known for his love of old books and his routine life, which until recently passed in an orderly calm. However, for weeks now, his existence had been transformed into a succession of endless nights, where darkness seemed to rest on him like a tangible shadow that prevented him from sleeping. The days, on the other hand, slipped away wrapped in a haze of tiredness and bewilderment, and Varela could not understand what it was that was disturbing his mind and soul. One particularly cold and silent night, while the library clock struck midnight with a deep echo, Varela found himself alone among shelves full of dusty volumes. The yellowish light of a desk lamp dimly illuminated the open pages of an ancient book that he was studying attentively, looking for answers in forgotten texts. The air was heavy with an aroma of old paper and melted wax, and the silence was so absolute that it seemed to absorb any sound. Suddenly, the door of the living room creaked with a prolonged moan, and Doña Elvira, the old woman in charge of cleaning, appeared. Her petite and stooped figure was silhouetted against the gloom, wrapped in her eternal black shawl, which seemed like just another shadow among the shadows. Her eyes, small and penetrating, shone with a strange light, a mixture of wisdom and mystery, and her trembling voice broke the silence. - Mr. Varela, are you still awake at this hour? - he asked, with a mixture of concern and curiosity in the tone. Varela looked up, rubbing his temples wearily. "I can't get to sleep, Dona Elvira—" he replied in a muffled voice. I feel as if a shadow hangs over my bed every night, preventing me from resting. The old woman slowly approached, resting a bony, wrinkled hand on the librarian's shoulder, transmitting to him a strange feeling of comfort and mystery. "They say that in St. Bartholomew restless souls seek companionship in the darkest hours—" he murmured. Have you not felt, perhaps, a strange presence, a whisper that you cannot explain? Varela hesitated, clearly remembering those moments when the curtains moved without wind, the floor creaked under invisible footsteps and an inexplicable cold chilled her skin in the middle of the night. "Maybe they're just the imaginations of a tired man," he mused, though doubt gnawed at him inside. At that moment, the door burst open and the young apprentice Tomás burst into the room, his face out of alignment and his breathing agitated. His youth contrasted with the expression of fear he displayed. - Mr. Varela! he exclaimed, in a choppy voice. There is something in the park... something that is not of this world. Moved by a mixture of fear and irresistible curiosity, the three of them went out into the cold night. They crossed the deserted streets, illuminated only by the pale moonlight, which filtered through the clouds like a distant lighthouse. The central park, normally a place of laughter and games, was now presented as a stage of shadows and whispers. There, on a worn wooden bench, stood a black cat, with fur as shiny as jet. His eyes, two incandescent embers, watched them with a disturbing, fixed and penetrating intelligence. The silence became even denser, and the air seemed to vibrate with an unknown energy. - That animal... - whispered Doña Elvira reverently. They say that he is the guardian of lost dreams, the watcher of that which escapes our understanding. The cat emitted a low and prolonged meow, which echoed like an ancient lament in Varela's heart. A shiver ran down his spine and, without thinking, he slowly crouched down. The animal nimbly jumped into his arms, purring with a deep and melancholy sound, as if sharing an ancient secret with him. Back at Varela's house, a modest apartment with walls covered with shelves full of books, the cat settled at the foot of the bed. Doña Elvira and Tomás, still restless, decided to stay to accompany the librarian, afraid of leaving him alone in the face of the unknown. The shadows danced softly in the lamplight, and the silence was filled with an almost tangible expectation. Before turning off the light, Tomás approached and, in a low and serious voice, murmured: - Maybe insomnia is not just a punishment, Mr. Varela. Maybe it's a message, a call for him to listen to something that he has ignored until now. The dream came then, deep and enveloping, as if an invisible hand was dragging him into the abysses of his subconscious. For the first time in many nights, Varela plunged into a restful rest, plagued by strange dreams, blurred images and whispering voices. When he woke up, the cat had disappeared, but on the pillow he found a note written in dark ink and delicate calligraphy: * "Sometimes insomnia is just looking for company. Other times, he wants us to hear what we don't want to hear."* Doña Elvira and Tomás read the note in silence, exchanging a look full of respect and reverent fear. Since that night, Mr. Varela never slept alone again. In the quietest hours, he swore to listen to the distant meowing of the cat and the echo of unrevealed secrets floating in the gloom of his room, as if the city itself were whispering its deepest mysteries to him. Thus, in San Bartolomé, where the border between the real and the fantastic blurs with the sunset, Mr. Varela's insomnia became a doorway into the unknown, and his life, previously monotonous and gray, acquired the magic and mystery of those stories that are only told in whispers, when the lights twinkle and the wind brings with it the rumor of lost dreams. Source of the images. Image created with Starryai.