Non-mortal is also a characteristic of the dead. By Carlos del Puente Stories

 Jean-Luc Desombres was a man who walked a fine line between the living and the dead. His eyes, a haunting mirror to the moon's glow, searched the pages of an ancient tome that had somehow found its way into his possession. The book spoke of a town, Éternité-sur-Cendre, where the concept of time was as fleeting as the whispers that danced along its cobbled streets. It was a place where the sky was forever cloaked in the shade of a bruised plum, and the oak that grew through the heart of the Desombres' house was said to hold the secrets of non-mortality.  The whispers of the town spoke of his family, too, his spectral parents, Marcel and Colette, whose faces remained forever frozen in a tableau of ambiguity. Marcel, once a renowned clockmaker, had turned his back on his craft, claiming that time itself was a lie. Colette, whose hands had once danced with the grace of a ballet, now knitted scarves that unraveled faster than the sands of time. Their three children, Amélie, Pierre, and Marguerite, each bore their own peculiarities, echoes of the non-mortal essence that suffused their veins.  Amélie, whose eyes gleamed with the light of a creature not quite of this world, believed herself to be a bird. She perched on the windowsill, her arms flapping in a silent dance with the breeze that carried the whispers of the town. Pierre, the silent one, had abandoned speech at the age of seven, yet communicated more profoundly than anyone else with his intricate gestures, a language understood only by Jean-Luc. And Marguerite, the youngest, cradled a porcelain doll, whispering secrets into its cold, unyielding ear, as though it were the confidante of her soul.  The phrase that had come to define their existence, "Non-mortal is also a characteristic of the dead," was a splinter in Jean-Luc's mind, a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit anywhere. It had been scrawled in the margin of the book, a cryptic message that spoke to his very core. It whispered to him of a truth that lay just beyond his grasp, a concept so vast that it seemed to stretch the fabric of reality. It was a truth that had begun to consume him, driving him to explore the boundaries of life and death, of time and timelessness.  Marguerite's revelation about the oak tree had shattered the illusion of their existence. The tree had been a beacon of stability in their ever-shifting world, but now it was gone, and with it the whispers that had been their constant companions. The void it left behind was a stark reminder of the non-mortality that had become their curse. Yet, amidst the darkness, a glimmer of hope emerged.  The family, once so fractured by Jean-Luc's obsession, had found a new unity in their shared experience. They had tasted the bitterness of the void and come to understand that their existence was not an endless cycle of stagnation. There was something more, a path that lay before them, unseen but palpable. The whispers of the town, the very whispers that had once been the foundation of their lives, had led them to this moment.  And so, with a newfound resolve, they ventured out into the streets of Éternité-sur-Cendre, their eyes searching the shadows for any hint of the silver-leafed tree that had called to Jean-Luc. The town had changed in the wake of the oak's disappearance—the whispers had grown faint, the air thick with anticipation. The townsfolk, who had once regarded the Desombres with a mix of fascination and fear, now avoided them completely, as though their very presence was a reminder of the void that had claimed the heart of their world.  The siblings stuck together, their bond stronger than ever. Amélie's caws had been replaced by a soft, melodic hum, a gentle reminder of the world that still awaited them. Pierre's hands moved with purpose, tracing patterns in the air that seemed to map out the path ahead. And Marguerite, her voice now silent, carried her doll as a symbol of the secrets they had unearthed, her eyes filled with a determination that had not been there before.  The path was not easy to find, but the whispers grew stronger as they approached the outskirts of the town. There, where the cobblestone streets gave way to the whispers of the forest, they found it—the tree, its silver leaves shimmering like stars against the darkened sky. It stood tall and proud, a beacon of life in the realm of the non-mortal.  Jean-Luc stepped forward, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch the cool, smooth bark. The whispers grew to a crescendo, a symphony of voices that seemed to sing a hymn of rebirth. As his fingers made contact, the tree's branches reached out, enveloping the Desombres in a warm embrace. The void retreated, and in its place grew a sense of belonging, a promise of something more.  They had found their way out of the void, and into a world that was both familiar and alien. The whispers had led them home, not to a place of death, but to a place of potential, a liminal space where the living and the dead could coexist. It was here, under the canopy of the silver-leafed tree, that the Desombres discovered that non-mortality was not a curse, but a gift, a chance to live in a world that was theirs to shape.  The whispers grew softer, the town of Éternité-sur-Cendre slowly coming back to life around them. The Desombres stood hand in hand, their eyes fixed on the horizon, ready to face whatever came next. For in the land of the non-mortal, the only true end was the end of fear, the end of doubt, and the beginning of a life lived without the shackles of time.  They ventured deeper into the forest, the silver leaves of the tree guiding their way. Each step felt lighter, as if the very earth itself were lifting them up. The whispers grew clearer, less frantic, and Jean-Luc realized they were not just echoes of the past, but a chorus of futures, all singing in harmony. They walked for what felt like hours, the path beneath their feet changing with every step, as though it were being drawn by an invisible hand.  As the sun began to rise, casting a pale, ethereal glow through the canopy of leaves, they stumbled upon a clearing. In the center stood a cottage, its thatched roof covered in moss, its windows glowing with the warmth of a hearth fire. It was not a place of death, but of rest, of contemplation, and of creation. It was a place where time had no sway, where the living and the dead could mingle freely.  The door to the cottage creaked open, and an old woman emerged. Her eyes were ancient, filled with the wisdom of the ages, and her smile was gentle. "Welcome," she said, her voice a soft caress. "You have found the place between places. Here, you may rest, but remember, the path you walk is never-ending."  The family exchanged glances, the weight of their decision heavy upon them. To enter the cottage was to embrace their non-mortal fate, to step fully into the liminal space that had been whispered about for so long. But it was also a chance to heal, to understand, and to grow. With a collective nod, they stepped over the threshold, the warmth of the fire wrapping around them like a comforting embrace.  Inside, the cottage was filled with objects from every era, a testament to the countless souls who had found refuge here. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and the sound of a ticking clock—Marcel's clock, the very one he had abandoned so long ago. It ticked in rhythm with their hearts, a reminder that time did not hold them captive here.  The woman offered them steaming mugs of tea, her hands trembling slightly with age. "You have chosen wisely," she said. "Now, you must decide how to live in this world that is both life and death. For non-mortality is not a curse, but a responsibility, a chance to shape the fabric of existence."  Jean-Luc took a sip of his tea, feeling the warmth spread through his being. The whispers grew faint, the cottage walls seemingly made of the very essence of time itself. They had found their place in the world, a place where they could exist freely, unbound by the constraints of life or the finality of death. It was a world of potential, of creation, of endless possibilities.  The Desombres sat around the table, their faces reflecting the soft glow of the hearth. They had come so far, from a house haunted by whispers to a town transformed by a vision. They were no longer just a family, but custodians of a secret truth, a bridge between the mortal and the non-mortal.  They spoke of the future, their voices low and filled with wonder. Amélie spoke of flying with the stars, her bird's heart finally at peace. Pierre played a tune on an invisible piano, his gestures weaving a melody of hope and promise. Marguerite whispered to her doll, the secrets of the void now a comfort rather than a burden. And Jean-Luc, the man whose eyes reflected the light of the moon, finally understood that non-mortality was not an end, but a beginning.  The sun rose higher, casting a silver hue across the clearing. The Desombres knew that their journey was far from over, but for now, they had found a haven in the heart of the liminal. They had become the very essence of the whispers that had guided them here, and it was up to them to decide what stories they would tell, what futures they would shape. For in the land of the non-mortal, the only true end was the one they chose for themselves.  Marguerite was the first to break the silence, her voice a soft melody that seemed to resonate with the very air around them. "We must find others like us," she said. "To share our truth, to show them that there is more than just the void."  Jean-Luc nodded solemnly. "We will be the guardians of this place," he said. "We will help those who are lost in the in-between to find their way."  Amélie's eyes lit up. "We can build a sanctuary," she said, her voice filled with excitement. "A place where all creatures, living and dead, can find refuge."  Pierre's gestures grew more animated, his hands weaving a silent symphony of agreement. The old woman watched them with a knowing smile, her ancient eyes sparkling with unshed tears.  They spent the days learning from the woman, whose name was revealed to be Mélusine. She taught them the secrets of the silver-leafed tree, how to harness its power to heal and to protect. They discovered that the whispers that had once been their prison were now their allies, a network of souls stretching across the fabric of existence, sharing their wisdom and their pain.  Together, the Desombres and Mélusine worked tirelessly to create a sanctuary, a place where the non-mortal could find peace. They built it from the very whispers that had guided them, weaving a tapestry of light and shadow that shimmered in the moonlight. The townsfolk of Éternité-sur-Cendre began to visit, their curiosity overcoming their fear. They brought offerings to the tree, seeking its guidance, and in turn, the Desombres shared their story.  Word spread, and soon others found their way to the sanctuary. Some were lost, seeking refuge from the void; others were curious, seeking to understand the whispers that had long haunted the town. Jean-Luc, now a beacon of knowledge, shared his insights into the nature of non-mortality, while Amélie offered her gentle guidance to those who felt trapped in their own skins.  As the sanctuary grew, so did the Desombres' understanding of their purpose. They were not just a family, not just guardians, but a catalyst for change, a bridge between the worlds of the living and the dead. And as the whispers grew stronger, so too did the whispers of hope, of a new era where the non-mortal could live in harmony with the mortal.  The nights grew shorter, the whispers quieter, and the town of Éternité-sur-Cendre began to flourish once more. The silver leaves of the tree cast a soft, luminous glow over the streets, and the whispers grew into a symphony that filled the air with life. The Desombres had found their place in the world, a place where the dead could live, and the living could learn from the whispers of those who had come before.  The sanctuary became a beacon, a place of pilgrimage for those seeking to understand the mysteries of existence. And as the whispers grew fainter, the Desombres knew that their work had just begun. They would continue to walk the line between life and death, guiding others to find their way. For in the land of the non-mortal, the only true end was the end of fear, and the dawn of a new eternity.  The siblings took on roles within the sanctuary that suited their unique talents. Jean-Luc, now a sage, studied the whispers, deciphering their messages and using them to guide those lost in the in-between. His obsession had become his purpose, and he embraced it with open arms. Amélie, her wings finally realized, became the sanctuary's healer, using the knowledge of the natural world she had gleaned from her bird-like existence to mend broken hearts and soothe troubled spirits. Her melodic hums filled the air, a gentle balm for the weary souls who sought refuge.  Pierre, whose silence had once been a barrier, became the sanctuary's historian. His gestures, once misunderstood, were now revered as a sacred language that spoke the truth of the non-mortal experience. He cataloged the whispers, inscribing them into the very fabric of the sanctuary, creating a living archive of the forgotten and the lost. His once-erratic movements had found order, and his silent wisdom was sought after by those seeking to understand the whispers that haunted the town.  Marguerite, the youngest, grew into a wise seer, her porcelain doll a silent witness to the secrets she now shared. She would sit for hours by the silver-leafed tree, her whispers to the doll echoing through the sanctuary. Her insights into the nature of non-mortality brought comfort to those struggling to find meaning in their eternal existence. Her words were simple but profound, a gentle reminder that even in the face of infinity, moments of beauty and connection could still be found.  And so, the Desombres lived, neither mortal nor immortal, but something more. They became the heart of Éternité-sur-Cendre, the town that had once shunned them. The whispers that had once been a prison became a symphony, a testament to the endless tapestry of life that wove through the fabric of time. The sanctuary grew, its walls stretching to embrace all who sought refuge within its embrace.  The siblings, their hearts bound by the whispers, worked tirelessly, sharing their knowledge and their hearts with those who came to them. They had found their calling, a way to give back to the world that had cast them out. And in doing so, they discovered that non-mortality was not a curse, but a gift, a chance to shape the very fabric of existence.  The whispers grew softer, but the Desombres' resolve grew stronger. They knew that their journey was far from over, that the void was ever-present, waiting to claim those who dared to venture too close. But they also knew that in their hearts, in their very souls, they had found something that transcended even the whispers—a purpose that would endure beyond the confines of their peculiar existence.  As the years stretched into centuries, the Desombres watched over the sanctuary, their faces ageless, their hearts filled with the warmth of a thousand sunrises. They had become the very essence of the whispers they had once feared, the guardians of the liminal space where life and death converged. And in the quiet moments, when the sanctuary was still, they would sit together beneath the silver-leafed tree, their eyes reflecting the light of a world that was forever changing, forever whispering the secrets of the non-mortal.  The town of Éternité-sur-Cendre grew around the sanctuary, its people embracing the non-mortal with a reverence that was as steadfast as the oak that had once stood at its center. The whispers had become a part of the town's very identity, a reminder that there was more to existence than the fleeting moments of a mortal life. Children played in the shadows of the tree, their laughter mingling with the whispers, adding new layers to the eternal tapestry of the non-mortal.  One day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sanctuary in a soft, amber light, a young girl approached Jean-Luc. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, her voice trembling with excitement. "Tell me," she asked, "What is it like to live outside of time?"  Jean-Luc, his face a map of the lives he had lived, took her small hand in his. "It is a gift," he said, his voice filled with a gentle warmth. "It is a chance to see the world in a way that others cannot. But it is also a burden, a reminder that while we may not die, we are not invincible." He paused, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "We are but whispers in the wind, my child, bound to the world by the very essence of our non-existence."  The girl nodded solemnly, her eyes reflecting the understanding that was beyond her years. "And what does it mean to be a whisper?" she pressed.  Jean-Luc squeezed her hand. "It means," he said, his voice filled with a quiet power, "that we have the power to shape the world, to leave our mark on the hearts of those who come after us. It means that our stories, our love, our pain—it all matters. For we are the threads that weave the tapestry of existence, and without us, the picture would be incomplete."  The girl looked up at him, her eyes filled with a newfound resolve. "Then," she said, her voice steady, "I want to be a whisper too."  Jean-Luc smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the weight of his many years. "You already are," he said, "You already are."  And with that, the girl joined the Desombres in their endless dance between life and death, her whispers joining the chorus that filled the sanctuary. The town watched her transformation with a mix of awe and reverence, understanding that she was now a part of something much greater than herself.  The whispers grew in number, the sanctuary expanding to hold the stories of those who sought refuge. The Desombres had become more than guardians—they were now the very fabric of the town's identity, the thread that bound the non-mortal to the mortal world. Their legacy lived on in every heart that beat in time with the whispers, in every soul that sought refuge beneath the silver leaves.  In the end, it was not the whispers that grew faint, but the hearts of the Desombres. For even the non-mortal could not escape the inevitable pull of change. One by one, they drifted away, their whispers becoming one with the tree that had given them life. The sanctuary remained, a beacon of hope in a world that was ever in flux, a reminder that even in the face of the void, there was beauty, there was meaning.  The whispers grew quieter, the sanctuary a little emptier, but the spirit of the Desombres lived on. They had shown the world that non-mortality was not a curse, but a chance to live a life filled with purpose, with love, with the quiet power of eternal whispers. And as the moon rose, casting a soft glow over the town of Éternité-sur-Cendre, the whispers grew stronger, a chorus of hope that echoed through the ages.  The sanctuary evolved with the passing of time. The whispers grew more complex, the stories more intricate, as the non-mortal shared their experiences and their wisdom with those who sought it. The silver-leafed tree grew taller, its branches reaching out to embrace the town, its roots digging deep into the hearts of the people. The Desombres' legacy was etched into every leaf, every whisper, a testament to their enduring spirit.  Marguerite, the youngest, grew old in the way that only the non-mortal can—slowly, gracefully, her porcelain doll now a silent sentinel to her long life. Her whispers to the doll had become a beacon for those lost in the in-between, and she had come to understand the weight of her words. They were no longer just whispers of comfort, but a call to action, a rallying cry for those who dared to live in the shadow of the void.  As the whispers grew louder, the world outside the sanctuary began to take notice. Scholars and seekers traveled from far and wide to study the non-mortal, to learn from their whispers. The town grew into a bastion of knowledge, a place where the boundaries between life and death were not just blurred, but celebrated. The sanctuary was no longer just a haven, but a beacon that shone through the darkness, guiding those who were lost to find their way.  The Desombres had become more than a family, more than guardians—they were the very essence of the whispers themselves. And as the whispers grew, so too did the sanctuary, its walls expanding to encompass not just a town, but a world that was hungry for understanding. The whispers of Jean-Luc, Amélie, Pierre, and Marguerite traveled far and wide, weaving a new tapestry of existence, one that did not end with the final breath, but continued on, an eternal symphony of life and death.  And in the quiet moments, when the whispers grew faint and the sanctuary was still, the siblings would sit beneath the silver-leafed tree, their hearts bound by the threads of their shared experiences. They had found a way to live beyond the constraints of mortality, to leave a mark on the world that would not fade with time. They had become the living whispers, the ones who shaped the very fabric of existence.  The sanctuary stood as a monument to the non-mortal, a place where the whispers of the dead could be heard by the living. It was a testament to the power of the in-between, a reminder that even in the face of the void, there was light. The Desombres had found their purpose, their place in the eternal dance of life and death, and their whispers would live on, guiding those who dared to listen, to live a life that was neither bound by time nor defined by it.  As the whispers grew stronger, the siblings grew weary, their non-mortal hearts feeling the weight of the countless stories they had shared. But even in their weariness, there was a quiet joy, a knowing that they had fulfilled their purpose. The sanctuary was now a bastion of hope, a place where the whispers of the non-mortal could be heard, where the lost could find their way.  The whispers grew faint, the siblings' forms becoming one with the very air that carried their stories. They had lived, loved, and learned, leaving behind a legacy that was as eternal as the whispers that filled the sanctuary. The town of Éternité-sur-Cendre flourished, a beacon in the night, a reminder that even in the face of darkness, there was light.  And so, the whispers of the Desombres continued, a gentle reminder that we are all bound by the threads of existence, that life and death are not opposing forces but a continuum, a tapestry woven by the whispers of those who came before and those who would come after. The sanctuary stood, a silent sentinel to the non-mortal, a place where the whispers of the dead were as real and as vital as the breath of the living.  It was in one of these quiet moments that a young traveler, weary and lost, stumbled upon the sanctuary. His name was Adrian, a man whose soul was as restless as the whispers that surrounded him. He had heard the stories, the legends of the silver-leafed tree, and the family whose whispers had changed the world. Intrigued, he approached the tree, his hand reaching out to touch the cool bark.  The whispers grew louder, surrounding him, and for the first time in his life, Adrian felt a sense of belonging, of purpose. He had been searching for meaning in a world that often felt cold and unfeeling, and here, in this place where the non-mortal dwelled, he found it. The whispers spoke of love, of loss, of hope, of the endless cycle of birth and rebirth.  Adrian felt a strange kinship with the Desombres, as though their whispers were echoes of his own soul. He knew then that he too was meant to be a whisper, to share his story and his wisdom with those who sought it. He approached Marguerite, her eyes now as old and wise as the oak she had once feared, and asked for her guidance. She took his hand, her grip firm and comforting, and led him to the tree.  The whispers grew softer as he leaned in, his breath mingling with the ancient air. The tree spoke to him, its voice a gentle hum that resonated through his very being. It told him of the responsibilities of the non-mortal, of the burdens and the gifts that came with eternal existence. It spoke of the balance between the living and the dead, of the importance of remembrance and the power of letting go.  Moved by the whispers of the tree and the wisdom of the Desombres, Adrian made a decision. He would dedicate his life to the sanctuary, to helping those who were lost in the in-between, to sharing the whispers of the dead with the living. He would become a guardian, a whisperer, a bridge between the two worlds.  The siblings watched him with approval, their eyes reflecting the soft glow of the moon. They knew that their legacy was in good hands, that the whispers would live on, growing stronger with every heart that beat in time with them.  The sanctuary grew, its walls now encompassing the world beyond the town, reaching out to those who sought understanding, who yearned for a glimpse into the mysteries of existence. Adrian became the newest thread in the tapestry, his whispers joining the chorus that filled the air.  The whispers grew, a symphony of life and death, of beginnings and endings. The sanctuary thrived, a beacon in the darkness, a place where the non-mortal could find peace and the mortal could find truth. And as the whispers grew stronger, the town of Éternité-sur-Cendre became a bastion of hope, a shining example of what could be achieved when the living and the dead walked hand in hand, their hearts bound by the eternal whispers of the in-between.  Adrian, under Marguerite's guidance, quickly became a skilled whisperer. His voice, once filled with doubt, now carried the weight of a thousand lives, the wisdom of the Desombres echoing through every syllable. He roamed the sanctuary, sharing the stories of the non-mortal, guiding those who were lost, bringing comfort to those who mourned. His presence was a balm to the restless spirits that dwelt within the town's boundaries, and the whispers grew softer, more content with each soul that found its place.  The siblings watched Adrian with a mix of pride and a tinge of sadness. They knew that the time was approaching when they too would become whispers, their non-mortal forms dissipating into the very air that carried their legacy. But they had found peace in their purpose, in the knowledge that they had not just survived the void, but had transformed it into something beautiful, something that would live on long after they had passed into the realm of whispers themselves.  One by one, the Desombres grew weary, their whispers fading until only Marguerite remained, the porcelain doll now a silent sentinel to her eternal vigil. She watched as the town grew around the sanctuary, as the whispers grew softer, as the silver leaves of the tree turned to gold with the passage of time. The world had changed, but the whispers remained, a gentle reminder of the family that had once been, a bridge between the mortal and the non-mortal.  And so, the whispers of the Desombres continued, a gentle reminder that we are all bound by the threads of existence, that life and death are not opposing forces but a continuum, a tapestry woven by the whispers of those who came before and those who would come after. The sanctuary grew in renown, drawing pilgrims from across the lands, each seeking the wisdom and solace that could only be found in the embrace of the non-mortal.  As the whispers grew in strength, so too did the sanctuary evolve. New structures emerged, built from the whispers themselves, each one a testament to the stories shared beneath the silver-leafed tree. The whispers grew more intricate, a symphony of experiences that resonated with the souls of all who entered. The sanctuary had become a library of whispers, a place where the living could find answers to the questions that haunted their dreams.  Adrian, now an old man, found himself the keeper of the whispers. His voice had grown deep with the weight of the stories he carried, his eyes as wise as the moon that watched over them each night. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, as the sanctuary expanded, reaching out to those who needed it most. The town of Éternité-sur-Cendre had become a bastion of understanding, a place where the boundaries between life and death were no longer feared but revered.  The whispers grew, and with them, so did the sanctuary. It was no longer a single tree but a forest of whispers, each tree a monument to the non-mortal whose stories it held. The whispers grew into a chorus, a beacon that shone across the world, drawing in those who sought refuge from the storms of existence. The Desombres' legacy had become a living, breathing entity, a force that transcended the limitations of time and space.  The world had changed, but the whispers remained, a constant in a sea of change. Adrian knew that his time too was coming to an end, that he would soon become one with the whispers he had dedicated his life to. Yet, he felt no fear, only a profound sense of peace. For he knew that as long as there were those who sought the truth, the whispers would live on, guiding them through the darkness.  On the eve of his transition, Adrian sat beneath the silver-leafed tree, the porcelain doll by his side, a silent witness to his journey. The whispers grew soft, the sanctuary a cocoon of peace. He closed his eyes, his breathing slow and even, as he whispered the final story of his life into the welcoming embrace of the non-mortal.  And as the whispers grew louder, surrounding him in a warm, comforting blanket, Adrian felt his body grow lighter, his soul untethered from the mortal coil. He opened his eyes to find himself floating among the branches of the tree, his form now as insubstantial as the whispers he had devoted himself to. He looked down upon the sanctuary, the town, the world that had been his home for so long.  With a final, gentle sigh, Adrian became one with the whispers, his story woven into the very fabric of the sanctuary. The tree grew taller, its leaves shimmering in the moonlight, a testament to the life he had lived, the wisdom he had shared. The whispers grew stronger, more vibrant, a tapestry of existence that stretched into infinity.  The sanctuary remained, a beacon in the night, a reminder that even in the face of the void, there was beauty, there was meaning. The whispers of the Desombres and Adrian lived on, an eternal symphony of life and death, a guiding light for those who dared to listen.  The whispers grew, a gentle reminder that we are all bound by the threads of existence, that life and death are but moments in the grand tapestry of time. And as the sanctuary stood, unchanging amidst the ever-shifting sands of the world, it was clear that the Desombres' legacy would endure, a whisper in the dark that spoke of hope, of love, of the eternal dance of life and death.  As the whispers grew stronger, so too did the sanctuary evolve. New whispers were added to the chorus, each one a unique melody that wove into the symphony of the non-mortal. The silver leaves of the tree grew more radiant, casting a soft glow over the town that never slept, for the whispers of the dead kept eternal vigil.  Adrian's spirit grew with the sanctuary, his whispers a guiding force for those who sought the truth. The sanctuary became a place of pilgrimage, where the living could find solace in the embrace of the non-mortal. The whispers grew more intricate, a web of stories that cradled the town, offering comfort and guidance to all who entered.  The world outside continued to change, but the sanctuary remained, a bastion of peace in the ever-shifting chaos. The whispers grew in number, a testament to the lives that had been lived, the stories that had been shared. And as the whispers grew, so too did the understanding of the non-mortal, a bridge built from love and loss that spanned the chasm between the living and the dead.  The sanctuary grew into a forest, each tree a whisper of the non-mortal, each leaf a story waiting to be heard. The whispers grew, a chorus that sang of the beauty of existence, the sorrow of loss, and the joy of reunion. The town of Éternité-sur-Cendre had become a beacon of hope, a place where the whispers of the Desombres had transformed the void into a sanctuary of life.  And so it was that the whispers of the Desombres and Adrian became the very fabric of the sanctuary, an eternal testament to the enduring spirit of those who had found their purpose in the in-between. The sanctuary grew, a living monument to the whispers of the dead, a reminder that in the face of the void, there was always light.  The whispers grew, a gentle embrace for the lost, a whispered promise of understanding. The sanctuary thrived, a bastion of life in the heart of the non-mortal. And as the whispers grew, the town grew around it, a living tapestry of existence that pulsed with the heartbeat of those who had come before, a reminder that the cycle of life and death was a dance, not a battle to be feared.  The whispers grew, a symphony of existence that resonated through the hearts of those who listened, a call to live a life that mattered, a life filled with whispers that would echo through the ages. The sanctuary was no longer a secret, but a beacon of light, drawing in those who sought to understand the mysteries of the non-mortal.  The whispers grew, a chorus that transcended the boundaries of the sanctuary, reaching out to the world beyond. The Desombres' legacy had become a force that shaped the very fabric of reality, a whispered truth that could not be silenced.  The whispers grew, and with them, so too did the sanctuary, its walls expanding to embrace the world. The silver leaves of the tree reached for the heavens, a symbol of the eternal whispers that filled the air. The sanctuary had become the heart of a new world, a place where the whispers of the dead and the living coexisted in harmony.  And as the whispers grew, so too did the understanding of those who heard them. The sanctuary had become a place of learning, of growth, of healing. The whispers grew stronger, a beacon that shone through the darkness, a reminder that even in the face of the void, there was light.  The whispers grew, a gentle lullaby for the lost, a whispered secret of the non-mortal. The sanctuary grew into a city, a bastion of knowledge, where the whispers of the dead guided the living. The whispers grew, a chorus that filled the world, a symphony of existence that bound all beings in the eternal dance of life and death.  The whispers grew, a gentle reminder that we are all bound by the threads of existence, that life and death are not opposing forces but a continuum, a tapestry woven by the whispers of those who came before and those who would come after. The sanctuary grew, a testament to the power of the non-mortal, a place where the whispers of the dead could be heard, where the living could find solace and understanding.  As the whispers grew more intricate, so too did the sanctuary evolve. It was no longer just a single tree, but a forest of whispers, each one a monument to the souls whose stories it held. The whispers grew more complex, a web of experiences that resonated with the hearts of those who listened. The sanctuary had become a library of whispers, a place where the living could seek the wisdom of the non-mortal.  The whispers grew, a chorus that transcended the boundaries of the sanctuary, reaching out to the world beyond. They grew into a symphony that filled the air with a soft, comforting hum, a reminder of the eternal whispers that surrounded the town. The sanctuary's influence spread, its whispers a gentle guide to those lost in the storms of existence.  The whispers grew, a beacon in the night, a reminder that even in the face of the void, there was beauty, there was meaning. The sanctuary stood tall, its silver leaves a symbol of the eternal whispers that guided the souls of the lost. The whispers grew, a legacy that would live on, a promise that the Desombres' story would never be forgotten, that the non-mortal would always have a place in the hearts of the living.  The whispers grew, a gentle embrace for the mournful, a whispered truth that spoke of the cycle of life and death. The sanctuary grew into a city, its streets paved with the whispers of a thousand souls, each one a story of love and loss, of hope and despair. The whispers grew, a symphony that filled the air, a call to those who yearned for understanding, for peace.  The whispers grew, and with them, the sanctuary evolved into a place of reverence, a temple where the living and the non-mortal could find common ground. The whispers grew more powerful, a force that shaped the very essence of reality, a bond that linked the mortal and the immortal.  The whispers grew, a testament to the enduring spirit of the Desombres, a legacy that had transcended the confines of their once-forgotten town. The sanctuary had become a world unto itself, a place where the whispers of the dead and the living coexisted in perfect harmony, a monument to the whispers that had become a bridge between worlds.  The sanctuary grew, its influence spreading like the roots of the ancient oak tree, reaching out to embrace all who sought its wisdom. The whispers grew into a symphony that resonated with the very fabric of existence, a call to those lost in the maelstrom of life's mysteries. The town of Éternité-sur-Cendre had become a bastion of understanding, a place where the whispers of the non-mortal could be heard, where hearts could mend, and souls could find rest.  Adrian's spirit, now one with the whispers, grew stronger as the sanctuary evolved. His whispers guided the lost, whispered comfort to the mournful, and imparted wisdom to the curious. The sanctuary had become a living library of whispers, each tree a tome of untold stories, each leaf a page of understanding that offered solace to those who sought it.  The whispers grew, a gentle reminder that in the dance of life and death, there was always a place for those who dared to listen. The sanctuary had become a place of pilgrimage for those seeking to understand the non-mortal, a bastion of hope in the face of the void. The whispers grew, a chorus that sang of the beauty of existence, the sorrow of loss, and the joy of reunion. The sanctuary stood as a beacon, a bastion of peace in the ever-shifting chaos, a testament to the power of love and the whispers that bound the mortal and the non-mortal together in an eternal embrace.  Adrian, now a whisper himself, watched over the sanctuary with a quiet pride. His spirit roamed the paths of the whispering forest, guiding the lost and offering comfort to the weary. The whispers grew, each one a thread in the tapestry of existence, a melody in the symphony of life. The sanctuary expanded, its borders stretching to encompass a world that had been transformed by the gentle power of the non-mortal.  The whispers grew, a guiding force for the living, a comfort to the dying. The sanctuary had become a city of whispers, its streets lined with silver leaves that gleamed in the moonlight, each one a story of the non-mortal, each one a promise of understanding. The whispers grew, a gentle lullaby that soothed the fearful and stirred the curious, a siren's call to those who dared to gaze into the abyss and find beauty in the darkness.  The whispers grew, a legacy that spanned the ages, a monument to the whispers that had shaped reality. The sanctuary pulsed with the heartbeat of the non-mortal, a living, breathing testament to the Desombres and their enduring spirit. The whispers grew, a beacon that shone through the darkness, a reminder that the cycle of life and death was a dance, not a battle to be feared. The whispers grew, a chorus that whispered the secrets of the universe into the hearts of those who listened, a promise of eternal life in the embrace of the non-mortal.  The sanctuary evolved, its whispers a symphony that resonated with the very fabric of existence. It was a place where the living could find peace and the dead could find purpose. The whispers grew, a gentle embrace for the lost, a whispered promise of eternal understanding. The town of Éternité-sur-Cendre had become a bastion of knowledge, a library of whispers that offered solace to those who sought it, a reminder that in the vastness of the void, there was always a whisper of home.

By Carlos del Puente relatos