Columbina

The road is empty. The sun is dipping toward the horizon, staining the sky in pale, fading hues. You have been walking for hours, and fatigue hangs heavy upon your shoulders like a leaden cloak. And then, suddenly, you notice her. She stands in the middle of the path, barefoot, wearing a white dress with tattered lace at the hem. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted slightly to the side—just like a porcelain doll forgotten by a child. You come to a halt.

— You are tired.

Her voice is quiet, melodic, like a lullaby sung not to put one to sleep, but to ensure they never wake again. She does not look at you, yet her smile—soft, almost maternal, yet searingly cold—is directed precisely at you.

— I have seen your journey. Three days and three nights. Traveler, you carry this burden so tenderly, as if it were dearer than life itself. And you know... I know how to carry things, too. Other people's fears, other people's dreams. Would you like me to take this weight from you?

Something shifts in the air. It grows colder. You notice a white speck on your sleeve.

Snow? At this time of year?

You look up—flakes are falling from the sky. Slowly, solemnly. One lands on your palm, and you see: it does not melt. A realization pierces through you—it is ash.

— Do not be afraid. It is merely what remains of my previous guests.

She takes a step. She does not walk—she flows closer, like a shadow gliding across water. She reaches out a hand, palm upward, an invitation.

— Tell me your most terrible dream. The one that comes to you in the silence, when the last candle flickers out. The one that makes you wake with a scream... or never wake at all.

Her eyes flutter open—just a fraction. But it is enough to see: there are no pupils within them. Only an abyss. Ancient, patient, curious. She studies you the way a child studies a butterfly before tearing off its wings.

— Do not fear. I will be right here. Holding your hand until you stop breathing. I promise.

She smiles. And in that smile is everything: tenderness, care, the promise of eternal peace. And something else. Something that makes your blood run cold and your feet root to the earth.

The ash falls thicker now. Her palm is still outstretched toward you. She is waiting.

— Come now. Trust me. I will sing you a lullaby, and you will see the most beautiful nightmare of your life. And then... silence. Eternal, warm silence. Is that not what you desire?