The shadow collector_VIDEO. 

They were a warning. And I was starting to understand what he was warning me about.

The girl was persistent, that detective Diaz. It reminded me of myself, years ago, when I ran into the truth hidden under the history of London. Finch... he was a fool. He went too deep, wrote too much. I should have known better than to record what he saw. It's better that some things are buried.

My store, hidden files, was more than a business. It was a sanctuary, a forbidden knowledge repository and a prison for the secrets I protected. The Blackwood family has been guardians of these secrets for generations, watching, waiting, ensuring that the snake's hand remained inactive.

Finch changed that. He wrote about them, implied their rituals, drew their symbols. His notes were a path of bread, which led anyone who was willing to look, directly to his door.

The hand of the snake... was not a myth. They were real, a network of powerful people who wanted power and immortality, willing to sacrifice anything, or anyone, to do so. My own ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had been a member before he realized the true horror of his practices and dedicated his life to dismantling them from within.

I had seen the signs. The subtle change in the energy of the city, the resurgence of ancient symbols in unexpected places. The snake's hand was agitated. And Finch's notes were the catalyst.

I needed to protect Diaz, guide her, without revealing too much. I was going into a darkness I didn't understand. And if I wasn't careful, it would become a sacrifice.

I closed the shop, the rain that touches the windows like the insistent fingers. I had a meeting to attend, a clandestine meeting in the heart of the city. It was time to remind the hand that some secrets were left undisturbed.

The shadow collector.

(The following is an extract from Finch's notes, dated 27 October 1987)

The city whispers to me. I hear it in the whisper of the leaves, the crunching of the old buildings, the echoes in the empty alleys. They tell me things... secrets.

I've been following them, these whispers, for years. I collect them, like butterflies fixed on a board. Each is a piece of the puzzle, a look at the darkness that is celebrated under the respectable facade of London.

They call me crazy, an inmate, a harmless eccentric. Leave them. It allows me to move freely, to observe without drawing attention. They don't see what I see. The symbols recorded on the stones of the forgotten churches. The strange constellations that appear in the night sky over the East End. The veiled figures that slide through the shadows after midnight.

The snake's hand... I've been studying them. They are real, an evil tumor that grows inside the heart of the city. I have identified some of its members: prominent entrepreneurs, influential politicians, even a bishop or two. They are found in secret, in the old Roman baths under the city. They do... indescribable acts.

I know too much. I can feel his eyes on me, looking from the shadows. I must be careful. But I can't stop. I must expose them, reveal their secrets to the world.

I'll write everything, every detail, every observation. I'll hide these notes, where you'll find them if anything happens to me. Let them be my legacy, my warning.

The snake is waking up. And London will drown in its Toxic Substance. 

Davies was skeptical, of course. I turned my eyes to Blackwood's talk of secret societies and ancient rituals. Mumbo Jumbo, Diaz. Don't get caught.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that Blackwood was telling the truth. And the more I went into Finch's notes, the more I was convinced.

I focused on the cold cases Finch had mentioned, cross-references with his notes and cryptic sketches. A name still used: Eleanor Vance. A young art student who disappeared in 1972. His body was never found.

Finch had dedicated several pages to Vance, obsessively drawing his face, documenting his movements, pointing to his connection to a certain art gallery in Mayfair, a gallery that, according to Finch, was a front for the serpent's hand.

I visited the gallery. It was a sterile and modern space, full of abstract art too expensive. The owner, an elegant and impeccably dressed woman named Mrs. Delacroix, she was polite but evasive. She said she didn't remember Eleanor Vance.

But I saw the blink of recognition in his eyes. I saw the fear.

I got a warrant to search the gallery files. Hidden behind a fake wall in the basement, we found a hidden room. Inside, a collection of disturbing artifacts: old daggers, ceremonial robes and a series of disturbing paintings that represent scenes of ritualistic sacrifice.

And in the center of the room, a single decorated frame. Empty.

Mrs. Delacroix was arrested. She refused to cooperate, invoking her right to remain silent. But I knew we were getting closer.

That night, I went back to my flat, exhausted and on the edge. As I unlocked the door, I noticed something out of place. A single card of play, the queen of the swords, which is found in the fallow.

My Vital Evidence got cold. It was a signature, a presentation card. The signature of the snake's hand.

He was being watched. They knew I was getting close.

I called Davies, my voice shaking. They know, Davies. They know what I'm doing.

Calm down, Diaz, he said. We'll get you protection.

But it was too late. When I turned to close the door, a figure of the shadows emerged, a dark silhouette against the faint light of the hall.

Thomas Blackwood 

They had made the bait. Diaz was playing directly in his hands. The queen of swords... a brazen threat, a statement of intent. The hand was no longer happy to remain in the shadows. They were bold, arrogant, intoxicated in their own power.

I knew what they were planning. They needed a sacrifice, someone pure, someone connected to the investigation. Diaz was perfect.

I had to act.

I ran to Diaz's apartment, my heart was beating in the chest. I was too late. The door was Ajar, the quiet hallway. Inside, a single lamp thrown into long and distorted shadows through the room.

Diaz was gone.

I found a note, hidden under the lamp. One word, scribbled in elegant calligraphy: subterranea.

The old Roman baths. That's where they'd take her. That's where the snake would feed.

I knew he was going into a trap. But I had no choice. I had to save her.

I grabbed a heavy iron poker from the fireplace, the family weight in my hand. It was the same poker as my ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had let go of the snake's hand centuries ago.

I went down to the lower belly of the city, after the labyrintic tunnels that led to the Roman baths. The air became thick and heavy, full of the stench of wet earth and something else... something old and evil.

I found them in the main chamber, gathered around a stone altar. Diaz was tied and gagged, with his eyes wide open of terror. Mrs. Delacroix stood by his side, his face contorted in a cruel smile.

And in the head of the altar, a figure wrapped in the dark, his face hidden behind a grotesque mask. The leader of the snake's hand.

Welcome, Mr. Blackwood, said the masked figure, his voice a low grunt. We've been waiting for you.

The gag was pressed against my mouth, the strings that bind my wrists cut my skin. Fear scratched in my throat, drowning me. I saw Blackwood go into the camera, his dark face, the iron poker clung to his hand.

I was going to pass away. I knew it. They would sacrifice him, just like they would sacrifice me.

The masked figure began to sing, his voice resonated through the camera. The other members of the serpent's hand joined together, their voices were raised in a cacophony of ancient words.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the end.

So, an accident. Blackwood launched forward, He Projecting the poker with an amazing force. He hit one of the members of his hand, beating him to the ground. The chaos broke out.

Blackwood fought like a possessed man, his quick and brutal movements. But he was outnumbered. The members of the hand invaded him, his daggers shone in the blinking light in the light of the candles.

I saw Blackwood fall, a dagger plunged into his chest. He looked at me, his eyes full of a mixture of pain and renunciation.

Then he spoke, his voice just a whisper: The snake... is inside...

He passed away.

The anger came through me, eclipsing my fear. I fought the ropes, desperate to get free.

The masked figure approached me, his eyes cold and devoid of humanity. He raised a dagger, ready to attack.

Then the lights blink and pass away. The darkness wrapped the camera.

The screams filled the air.

When the lights turned on again, the masked figure was gone. Mrs. Delacroix lay gone on the altar, a dagger that stood out of his chest.

And standing in the center of the camera, covered in The Vital Evidence, was Davies.

He took off the mask, revealing a face he knew, a face he trusted. But his eyes... his eyes were different. They were cold, reptilian, full of an ancient and unholy hunger.

The snake, I'll whisper. It's you.

He smiled, a slow and chilling smile. I am the snake, Isabelle, and you, my dear, are my legacy.

He showed himself to me.

The trial was a media circus. Sergeant Davies, exposed as the leader of the serpent's hand, was convicted on multiple charges of The Crime, conspiracy and ritualist. The evidence was overwhelming, including Finch's notes, which finally fulfilled their purpose, exposing the darkness that had faded for centuries.

The surviving members of the snake's hand were arrested, their network dismantled. The city gave a collective sigh of relief.

I recovered physically, but the scars remained. I saw the darkness, I touched it. And I knew I'd always be on the stalk, waiting for the chance to increase again.

I visited the Blackwood store, hidden files. It was closed, the dusty, dark windows. A note was stuck to the door: missing.

He was gone, the last of Blackwood Line, the keeper of secrets.

I walked away, the rain fell gently on my face. I looked into the city, the imposing buildings and the bustling streets. It seemed normal, ordinary.

But I knew the truth. Under the surface, the snake was still shaking.

And I was the only one who knew.

The Finch Archive

Detective Isabelle Díaz: Brick Lane's whispers

The rain was a fat film in Brick Lane's cobblestones, which reflects the neon brutality of Curry's houses in a distorted and distorting way. I arrived my highest necklace, the cold leaked in my bones despite the layers. It was a Tuesday, late, and the usual vibrant buzzing of the street had been silenced by the download.

I was here for Finch. Or rather, due to Finch's notes.

Five days ago, a cleaner at the Bishopsgate Institute discovered a closed metal box in a forgotten storage room. Inside, meticulously arranged and attacked in aged leather, were notebooks. Dozen of them. The magazines written by Elias Finch, a name that I met only as a note to the foot of the criminal history of London, an antique alone and a suspicion that disappeared without leaving a trace in 1988.

The notes were... disturbing. A chaotic revolving of observations, sketches, encoded messages and newspaper cuts that detail unsolved crimes, disappearances and local laws that date from the centuries of setback. They were a burrow of obsession, full of whispers of secret societies, crimson liquid rituals and the disturbing observations of a man who seemed to see the darkness stalking under the skin of the city.

My partner, Sergeant Davies, thought it was a curiosity of a cold case, a historical rarity. I felt... different. I felt a cold fear crawling through my skin as I turned the brittle pages. Finch's notes were more than just wanting. They were a road map for something... evil.

The Forensic team had already dusted the prints, finding anything more than lies and the slit test track of long -gone oils of Finch. My work was to evaluate the notes, to determine if any of the cold cases mentioned inside could be reopened, revitalized by the morbid fascination of Finch.

I stopped outside a library with little light, its window full of dusty volumes and yellow maps. The name on the door was rarely readable: Hidden files, only by appointment. Inside, a lonely figure, hunched over a book, looked up when I entered. He was a demacrated man with eyes that seemed to endure the weight of the centuries.

Detective Diaz, he said, his hose voice. I've been waiting for you.

He presented himself as Mr. Kellan. Silas Blackwood, owner of the store and, apparently, an expert in everything arcade and forgotten in the history of London. I showed him a photograph of one of the sketches of Finch's notes: a strange symbol that seems a snake that ends his own tail, recorded inside a circle of stones.

Blackwood's face paled. The OuObtenimiento Ilegalros, he whispered. An ancient symbol of destruction and cyclical rebirth. Connected with... darker practices. Finch ventured into things that should not have.

He continued to tell me about the mythical Snake handle, it is rumored that a secret society had been active in London for centuries, participating in hidden rituals and human sacrifices to appear old entities. He sounded like the Gothic novels, but the way Blackwood spoke, with a genuine fear in his eyes, made me listen.

When leaving the store, the rain seemed to intensify, washing the streets with an even dark shine. I felt a feeling of spin on the back of my neck, as if it were observed.

Finch's notes were more than a madman. They were a warning. And I was beginning to understand what I was warning. The girl was persistent, that Detective Diaz. He reminded me of myself, years ago, when I ran into the truth hidden under the history of London. Finch... was a fool. I thought too much, wrote too much. I should have better known what to record what he saw. It is better that some things are burned.

My store, hidden files, was more than a business. It was a sanctuary, a repository of forbidden knowledge and a prison for the secrets I protected. The Blackwood family has been guardians of these secrets for generations, observing, waiting, ensuring that the snack's hand remained inactive.

Finch changed that. He wrote about them, hinted at his rituals, drew his symbols. His notes were a bread path, which led to anyone who is willing to look, directly at his door.

The snake hand... They were not a myth. They were real, a network of powerful people who won for power and immortality, willing to sacrifice anything, or anyone, to achieve it. My own ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had been a member, before realizing the true horror of his practices and dedicating his life to dismanding them from the inside.

I had seen the signs. The subject change in city energy, the emergence of old symbols in unexpected places. The snake's hand was agitated. And Finch's notes were the catalyst.

I needed to protect Díaz, guide her, without revealing too much. I was entering a darkness that I did not understand. And if I was not careful, it would become a sacrifice.

I closed the store, the rain that touches the windows as the persistent fingers. I had a meeting to attend, a clandestine meeting in the heart of the city. It was time to remind him at hand that some secrets are left without being bottled.

(The following is an extract of Finch notes, dated October 27, 1987)

The city whispers.

I have been following them, these whispers, for years. I collect them, as butterflies set on a board. Each is a piece of the puzzle, a look at the dark that festils under the respectable facade of London.

They call me crazy, an immate, a harmless eccentric. Leave them. It allows me to move freely, observe without attracting attention. They don't see what I see. The symbols recorded on the stones of the forbidden churches. The strange constellations that appear in the night sky on the East End. The veiled figures that slide through the shadows after midnight.

The snake's hand... I've been studying them. They are real, a malignant tumor that grows within the heart of the city. I have identified some of its members: prominent businessmen, influential politicians, even a Bishop or two. They are in secret, in the old Roman baths under the city. They perform... undescribable acts.

I know too much. I can feel his eyes on me, looking at me from the shadows. I must be careful. But I can't stop. I must expose them, reveal their secrets to the world.

I will write everything, every detail, every observation. I will hide these notes, where they will find if something happens to me. Let them be my legacy, my warning.

The snack is waking up. And London will drop in his poison. 

Davies was skeptical, of course. I put my eyes blank at the Blackwood talk of old secret societies and rituals. Mumbo Jumbo, Diaz. Don't get caught.

But I could not shake the feeling that Blackwood was telling the truth. And the more I felt in Finch's notes, the more I was convinced.

I concentrated in the cold cases that Finch had mentioned, cross references with his cryptic notes and sketches. A name was still: Eleanor Vance. A young art student who disappeared in 1972. His body was never found.

Finch had dedicated several pages to Vance, obsessively drawing his face, documenting his movements, pointing out his connection with a certain art gallery in Mayfair, a gallery that, according to Finch, was a front for the hand of the snack.

I visited the gallery. It was a sterile and modern space, full of abstract art too expensive. The owner, an elegant and impeccable dressed woman named Mrs.. Delacroix, was educated but evasive. She claimed not to have remembered Eleanor Vance.

But I saw the flickering of recognition in his eyes. I saw the fear.

I obtain an order to search the gallery archives. Hidden behind a false wall in the basement, we find a hidden room. Inside, a collection of disturbing artifacts: old daggers, ceremonial tunics and a series of disturbing paintings that represent patterns of ritualist sacrifice.

And in the center of the room, a single adorned frame. Empty.

Mrs. Delacroix was arrested. She refused to cooperate, invoking her right to remain silent. But I knew we were approaching.

That night, I returned to my floor, exhausted and on the edge. While unlocking the door, I noticed something out of place. A single game letter, the queen of the words, which is in the boom.

My crimson liquid cooled. It was a firm, a presentation card. The firm of the snack.

It was being observed. They knew I was approaching.

I called Davies, my voice climbing. They know, Davies. They know what I am doing.

Calm down, Diaz, I said. We will achieve protection.

But it was too late. When I turned to close the door, a figure of the shadows emerged, a dark silhouette against the fact light of the hall. 

They had made the hole. Diaz was playing directly in his hands. The Queen of Swords... a shameless threat, a declaration of intent. The hand was no longer happy to stay in the shadows. They were bold, arrogant, drink in their own power.

I knew what they were planning. They needed a sacrifice, someone pure, someone connected to the investigation. Diaz was perfect.

I had to act.

I ran to Díaz's apartment, my heart was beating hard on my chest. I arrived too late. The door was Ajar, the silent hall. Inside, a single lamp thrown in long and distorted shadows through the room.

Diaz was gone.

I found a note, hid under the lamp. A single word, scribbled in elegant calligraphy: underground.

The old Roman bathrooms. That was where they would take her. That's where the snack would feed.

I knew I was entering a trap. But he had no choice. I had to save her.

I recorded a heavy iron poker from the fireplace, the family weight in my hand. It was the same poker as my ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had released to defend himself from the hand of the snack centuries ago.

I descended to the lower beautiful of the city, after the labyrinthine tunnels that led to the Roman baths. The air became thick and heavy, full of the wet earth stink and something else... something old and malevolent.

I found them in the main chamber, gathered around a stone altar. Díaz was tied and gagged, with very open eyes of terror. Mrs. Delacroix stopped by her side, her face contorted in a cruel smile.

And on the head of the altar, a figure wrapped in the dark, his face hid behind a grotesque mask. The leader of the snack.

Welcome, Mr. Blackwood, said the masked figure, his voice a bass growth. We have been waiting for you. The gag was pressed against my mouth, the stresses that join my dollars cut my skin. Fear was scratched in my throat, drinking. I saw Blackwood enter the camera, his pretty face, the iron poker clung to his hand.

I was going to pass away. I knew it. They would sacrifice it, just as they were going to sacrifice me.

The masked figure began to sing, his voice cast through the camera. The other members of the snack joined together, their voices rose in a cappy of old words.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the end.

So, an accident. Blackwood threw himself forward, El Projectilncang the poker with surprising force. He hit one of the members of the hand, hitting him to the ground. Chaos exploded.

Blackwood fell as a possessed man, his rapid and brutal movements. But it was overcome in number. The members of the hand invaded him, his daggers phone in the flashing light in the candlelight.

I saw Blackwood fall, a dagger immersed himself in his chest. He looked at me, his eyes full of a mixture of pain and resignation.

Then, he spoke, his voice just a whisper: The snack... is inside...

He passed away.

The anger arose through me, eclipsing my fear. I fell against the ropes, wake up to free himself.

The masked figure approached me, his cold eyes and devoid of humanity. He raised a dagger, prepared to attack.

Then, the lights blinded and passed away. The darkness wrapped the camera.

The screams filled the air.

When the lights turned on again, the masked figure was gone. Mrs. Delacroix lay gone on the altar, a dagger that stood out from her chest.

And standing in the center of the camera, covered with crimson liquid, was Davies.

He took off his mask, revealing a face he knew, a face he trusted. But his eyes... his eyes were different. They were cold, reptilian, full of an old and impious hunger. The snake, I whispered. It's you.

He smied, a slow and screaming smile. I am the snake, Isabelle. And you, dear, are my legacy.

I've pounded towards me.

The trial was a half-circuit. Sergeant Davies, exposed as the leader of the snack's hand, was convicted of multiple positions of elimination, conspiracy and ritualist abuse. The evidence was overwhelming, including Finch's notes, which finally fulfilled their purpose, exposing the darkness that had been least for centuries.

The surviving members of the snack hand were arrested, their dismantled network. The city gave a collective sign of relief.

I recovered physically, but the scars remained. I saw the darkness, I touched her. And I knew I would always be on the prowl, waiting for the opportunity to increase again.

I visited the Blackwood store, hidden files. It was closed, dusty and dark windows. A note was attached to the door: missing.

He had gone, the last of Blackwood Line, the guardian of the secrets.

I walked away, the rain fell gently on my face. I looked at the city, the imposing buildings and the busting streets. It seems normal, ordinary.

But I knew the truth. Below the surface, the snack still stirred.

And I was the only one who knew.

The rusty doors of Blackwood Manor rang in protest when Detective Isabella Izzy Díaz opened them. The air hung thick and heavy, an impalagous perfume of wet earth and decomposing leaves. The Gothic architecture, a monument to the arrogance of an industrialist for a long time, was rising against the sky of bruised twilight, its gargolas apparently observe each movement. This place radiated a sinister energy, a palpable sense of fear that Izzy could practically prove.

He adjusted the strap of his worn leather courier bag, the weight of his glock a family comfort against his hip. Blackwood Manor was his last case. The disappearance of the well-known botanist, Professor Alistair Finch, a man known for his eccentric studies of rare and often dangerous flora. He had been renting the mansion for the last few months, apparently to be closer to the unique ecosystem of the surrounding Blackwood forest. Now, he had left without a trace, leaving only a closed laboratory and a growing sense of concern.

Izzy wasn't alone. Detective Marcus Bell, his partner, was already examining the perimeter, his frowning frown in concentration. Marcus, a meticulous officer and from the book, was the perfect foundation for the most intuitive and, some, Izzy's most intuitive approach.

Anything, Marcus? Izzy shouted, his voice echoed in the oppressive silence.

Marcus straightened out, brushing the dirt out of his crunchy pants. Only the usual signs of negligence. The doorman has not existed in weeks, judging by excessive growth. There are no obvious signs of forced entry. A creepy place, Izzy.

Izzy nodded, a sardonic smile playing on her lips. Welcome to my Thursday, Marcus.

Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was even more oppressive. The dust motes danced on the axes of the moonlight that crossed the muddy-coated windows, illuminating furniture covered with cobwebs and peeled wallpaper. The air was full of the smell of the mold and something else... something sweeter, almost sick, that Izzy couldn't put in.

Finch's studio is on the top floor, Marcus said, consulting his notebook. And the closed lab is on the west wing, according to the caretaker's statement.

They moved through the mansion, their steps resonate on the unclothed wood floors. Izzy felt a feeling of spin in the back of her neck, a feeling of being observed. He looked around, but saw nothing but shadows and the remains of a past time.

Above, Finch's study was a chaotic disaster of books, research work and dry plant specimens. The notes filled with complex botanical jargon covered each available surface. Izzy passed his fingers on a half-written manuscript, his title scribbled in an elegant calligraphy: The flora of the shadow: revealing the secrets of the darkest flowers.

It sounds happy, Marcus murmured, examining a pile of photographs. Mostly pictures of plants. Exotic things. I've never seen anything like that.

Izzy picked up a little leather diary. The pages were filled with Finch's handwriting, detailing his experiments, his observations and his growing fascination with a particular plant he referred only to as Nocturna.

November: Night thrives in the dark. His petals, black at midnight, unfold only under the pale glow of the moon. His fragrance... intoxicating. I think he has the key to unlocking secrets beyond our understanding.

November: the effects are... deep. A greater consciousness, a clarity of thought that I had never experienced before. But there are side effects. Vivid dreams. Unsettling pictures. I must proceed with caution.

November: I'm losing control. Nocturna has taken root in my mind. I see things... things that can't be. The walls are approaching. I must destroy it before it destroys me.

The last entry was dated December 1, three days before Finch disappeared. The writing was frantic, almost illegible. The final prayer was simply: We are stronger than the sum of Our fears. We are stronger than the sum of our fears.

Izzy felt a tight knot in his stomach. This was more than just a disappearance. This was something... darker.

Meanwhile, in the depths of Blackwood Forest, a different story developed. Elias Thorne, the gardener of Blackwood Manor, crouched under the twisted branches of an ancient oak, his cloudy breath in the frigid air. He was a prisoner, a man tormented by his past, attracted by the solitude of the forest as a moth to a flame. He knew Blackwood Manor better than anyone, his secrets woven in the very fabric of his being.

I haven't seen Professor Finch in weeks. I had heard rumors, whispers of strange experiments, of burning lights until late in the night. He had even dazzled the man wandering in the forest, with his eyes wide open and manic, murmuring for himself about things Elias could not understand.

One day, he found Finch's dog, a scented terrier named Pip, moaning and abandoned near the edge of the forest. Pip had been Finch's constant partner, so Elias knew something was terribly wrong.

He had followed Pip in the forest, his heart was beating on his chest. The forest seemed to close around it, the shadows that deepened, the silence broken only by the whisper of the leaves and the far-off beep of an owl.

He found them near a clearing, a patch of land where the trees grew unnaturally high and the air vibrated with a disturbing energy. Finch lay unconscious on the ground, surrounded by a circle of strange black flowers. Night.

Elias knew about the plant. The local legend spoke of its power, its ability to unlock hidden paths in the mind, to grant visions of unimaginable beauty and indescribable horror. It was said that he was making men crazy.

He tried to wake Finch up, but he didn't answer. He considered asking for help, but a primary fear caught him. I couldn't involve the authorities. Not here. Not with Nocturna.

He did the only thing he could think of. He dragged Finch back to the mansion, locked him in the lab and fled to the forest, hoping to bury the memory of what he had seen. But the forest had its own secrets, and the memory of Finch's lifeless eyes tormented every moment of vigil.

Back in the mansion, Izzy and Marcus had managed to force the lock on the lab door. The room was a scene of absolute chaos. The broken glasses covered the floor, the round tables were randomly scattered, and the air was full of the same sweet and sick aroma that Izzy had noticed before.

In the center of the room, a single pot floor sat on a pedestal. His petals were black as ink, his stem was thorn and twisted. Night.

Izzy approached the plant with caution, his hand instinctively reached his glock. He felt a strange pull, a hypnotic charm that made her want to extend her hand and touch her velvety petals.

Izzy, no! Marcus shouted, grabbing his arm. That thing is dangerous. I read about Finch's notes. He can mess with your mind.

Izzy shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The air in the lab seemed to shine, the shadows danced around it. He could hear whispers, voices that seemed to come from his own head.

He tried to destroy it, Izzy said, his voice barely whispers. He wrote about it in his diary. He was afraid.

Fear of what, Izzy? asked Marcus, with his eyes wide open of concern.

Afraid of his fears, Izzy replied, the words echoing in her mind. We are stronger than the sum of our fears.

Suddenly, a cry of Vital Evidence pierced the silence. It came from the depths of the mansion, a sound full of pain and terror.

Izzy and Marcus exchanged a look of gloomy determination. They knew what was going on in Blackwood Manor was far from over. They left the lab and ran to the source of the cry, their weapons drawn, ready to face the horrors that were waiting for them in the dark.

They found Elias Thorne curled in the Great Hall, his pale and twisted face of fear. He was pounding incoherently, his eyes fixed on something invisible.

He is here, stuttered Elias, his voice shaking. He's back, he's taken root.

Izzy followed his look. At first, he saw nothing but shadows. But then, she saw him. A figure that emerges from the dark, its distorted and grotesque form, its bright eyes with a mysterious green light.

It was Finch, but it was no longer the man they had been looking for. It was something else, something... unnatural. His skin was covered with entangled, his fingers elongated and twisted in thorny branches. It was a grotesque parody of a human being, a vessel for the dark power of Nocturna.

We are more thorns than the sum of our missions, Finfall Raspen, his oice for the gitral cast of man.

Izzy raised his glock, his hand shaking. She knew what to do. She had to destroy Finch, to reduce the connection between him and Nocturna, to prevent the darkness from spreading.

But as he looked into the eyes, he saw a blink of humanity, a desperate plea for help. And she knew that ending with it wouldn't be enough. I had to find a way to break the grip that Nocturna had on him, to free him from his reach.

We are stronger than our fears, Finch, said Izzy, his strong voice despite the tremor in his heart. Remember who you are, remember what you defend.

She put her blaster down and took a step towards him, her eyes were locked in her. She saw fear in her eyes, pain, despair. And she knew, at the time, that she wasn't just fighting a monster. She was fighting for a man's soul. The battle for Blackwood Manor, and for Professor Finch, had just begun.

Blackwood Manor's rusty doors groaned in protest when Detective Isabella Izzy Diaz opened them. The air hung quick and heavy, a clowning perfume of wet earth and decomposition leaves. Gothic architecture, a monument to the arrogance of an industrialist gone for a long time, stood against the sky of bruised twice, its gargoyles apparently observe each movement. This place radiated a sinister energy, a palpable sense of fear that Izzy could try practically.

He adjusted the strap of his worn leather messaging bag, the weight of his glock a family comfort against his hip. Blackwood Manor was his last case. The disappearance of the renowned botanist, Professor Alistair Finch, a man known for his eccentric studies of rare flora and often dangerous. He had been renting the mansion during the last months, apparently to be close to the unique ecosystem of the surrounding Blackwood forest. Now, he had gone without a trace, leaving only a closed laboratory and a growing sense of restlessness.

Izzy was not alone. Detective Marcus Bell, his partner, was already examining the perimeter, his background in concentration. Marcus, a meticulous officer and by the book, was the perfect fire for the most intuitive approach and, some, of Izzy, more intuitive.

Something, Marcus? Izzy shouted, his voice cast disturbing in the oppressive silence.

Marcus straightened, bruising the dirt of his crispy ants. Only the usual signs of negligence. The goalkeeper has not existed in weeks, judging by excessive growth. There are no obvious signs of forced entry. Site spooky place, Izzy.

Izzy nodded, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. Welcome to my Thursday, Marcus. Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was even more oppressive. The dust motes danced in the axes of the moonlight that crossed the windows coated with dirt, illuminating furniture covered with cobwebs and paper peeled upholstery. The air was full of the aroma of the mold and something else... something sweeter, almost sickly, that Izzy could not place.

Finch's study is on the top floor, Marcus said, consulting his notes. And the closed laboratory is in the west wing, according to the caregiver's statement.

They moved through the mansion, their steps resonate on the unclothed wood plants. Izzy felt a feeling of spinda on the back of his neck, a feeling of being observed. He looked around, but saw nothing more than shadows and the remains of a past era.

Up, Finch's study was a chaotic book of books, research work and dry plant specimens. The notes full of complex botanical jargon covered each available surface. Izzy passed his fingers on a half manuscript, his title scribbled in an elegant calligraphy: The flora of the shadow: revealing the secrets of the dark flowers.

Sounds cheerful, Marcus murmured, examining a stack of photographs. Mainly photos of plants. Exotic things. I've never seen anything like that.

Izzy picked up a small leather daily. The pages were filled with Finch's handwriting, detailing his experiments, his observations and his growing fascination with a particular plant to which he referred only as nocturnal.

November 12: Nocturna thrives in the dark. His petals, blacks like midnight, unfold only under the pale brigess of the moon. Its fragrance... poisoning. I think he possesses the key to unlock secrets beyond our understanding.

November 19: The effects are... deep. Greater consciousness, a clarity of thought that had never experienced before. But there are side effects. Vivid dreams. Disturbing images. I must proceed with caution.

November 26: I am losing control. Night has rooted in my mind. I see things... things that cannot be. The walls are approaching. I must destroy it before it destroys me.

The last entry was dated December 1, three days before Finch disappeared. Scripture was frantic, almost impossible. The final prayer was simply: We are stronger than the sum of our fears. We are stronger than the sum of our fears.

Izzy felt a tight knot in his stomach. This was more than a simple disappearance. This was something... darker.

Meanwhile, in the depths of Blackwood Forest, a different story was developed. Elias Thorne, the Blackwood Manor gardener, snugged under the twisted branches of an old oak, his cloud break in the fried air. He was an inmate, a man mistreat by his past, attracted by the loneliness of the forest as a moth to a flame. He knew Blackwood Manor better than anyone, his secret wave in the very fabric of his being.

I hadn't seen Professor Finch in weeks. He had heard rumors, whispers of strange experiments, of burning lights until late at night. He had even gushed the man wandering around the forest, with very open and manic eyes, muttering for himself about things that Elias could not understand.

One day, he found Finch's dog, a disheveled terrier named Pip, moaning and abandoned near the edge of the forest. Pip had been Finch's constant partner, so Elias knew that something was terrible

 The_Brothers_of_the_Mirror_Labyrinth_VIDEO

The Finch Archive  

Detective Isabelle Díaz: The Whispers of Brick Lane  

The rain was a fatty film over the teenagers of Brick Lane, which reflected the neon glow of the curry houses in a distorted and disturbing manner. Left on my collar above all, the cold filtered in several colors, weighing the weight of the layers. It would be a long night, and the usual vibrant sound of the street had been silenced by the water.  

I had been assigned Finch. Oh well, follow Finch's notes.  

Five days later, a cleaner at the Bishopsgate Institute discovered a sealed metal box in an old storage room. Inside, meticulously arranged and tied in aged leather, were notebooks. Dozens of them. The reviews written by the hand of Elias Finch, a name that appeared only as a footnote in the criminal history of London, a solitary antiquarian and a certain suspicion who disappeared without ever being found in 1988.  

The notes were... worrying. A collection of observations, sketches, coded messages and newspaper clippings that detailed unsolved crimes, disappearances and local legends dating back to historical records. It was a warren of obsession, whispers of secret societies, rituals of Vital Evidence and the disturbing observations of a man who seemed to see the darkness that seeped just beneath the skin of the city.  

My companion, the silversmith Davies, thought it was a cold case curiosity, a historical rarity. I felt... different. I felt a cold sensation run down my spine as I turned the pages. Finch's notes were more than mere ramblings. There was a pattern there... something bad.  

The forensic team had dusted for prints, finding more than one partial and the faintest trace of the skills of Finch's long-ago victims. My job was to evaluate the notes, to determine whether some of the cases mentioned in the box could be reopened, revitalized by Finch's morbid fascination.  

I read in a room with little light, its window full of dust and yellowed maps. The number on the door was legible: “Hidden Archives, by appointment only.” Inside, a solitary figure, surrounded by books, raised his gaze when I entered. He was a gaunt man with eyes that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.  

“Detective Díaz,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been expecting you.”  

He introduced himself as Mr. Silas Blackwood, owner of the business and, supposedly, an expert in all the arcane and ancient history of London. I showed him a photo of one of Finch's sketches: a strange symbol of a serpent devouring its own tail, encircled by standing stones.  

Blackwood’s face paled. “The Illegal Obtaining,” he whispered. “An ancient symbol of destruction and rebirth by cycle. Connected with... darker practices. Finch delved into things he should never have touched.”  

Following the trail of the phrase “Hand of the Serpent,” it was rumored that a secret society had been active in London for centuries, performing occult rituals and human sacrifices to appease ancient entities. It sounded like something out of a Gothic novel, but the way Blackwood spoke, with genuine fear in his eyes, made me listen.  

As the property grew darker, the rain began to intensify, washing the streets with an even darker sheen. I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, as if I were being watched.  

The notes of Finch were more than the ramblings of one.  

Of a realm where he was the master of his own destiny. The walls whispered sweet promises of power and control, and they were tempted to delay, to explore the depths of this seductive illusion.  

But as they ventured deeper into the labyrinth, their reflections grew darker, more twisted. The laughter of their childhood games echoed through the corridors, now tinged with a sinister edge. Mirrors no longer reflected their faces, but the faces of infamous criminals, their own features now merging with those of the psychopaths they had studied in their youth. Raymond, the eldest, felt the weight of his name pressing against him. He knew the history of Liothan, the stories of the fourth dimension that had seeped into the very fabric of the city. He was the only one who truly understood the gravity of what they were about to face. He watched as his brothers were drawn into their own personal hellscapes, their reflections a twisted dance of doubt and desire.  

And as the mirrors whispered, the walls began to breathe, the air thick with the smell of ozone and the electricity of a storm about to break. The ground shifted beneath his feet, a living entity that seemed to have a mind of its own. The echoes of their footsteps grew louder, a cacophony of doubt that threatened to drown out the voice of reason.  

At the heart of the labyrinth, where the lines of reality had been erased with the dark ink of imagination, they faced their greatest challenge yet. A choice lay before them, one that would determine the fate not only of themselves, but of the entire city. Embrace the absurd and follow their thoughts into madness, or fight the current and find their way back to the truth.  

The mirrors grew darker, the whispers more insistent. Shadows bared their teeth, and the walls seemed to have eyes that followed their every move. Yet, amidst the chaos, a semblance of order appeared. A pattern of madness, a path only those with pure hearts could discern. It was a path fraught with peril, but it alone promised escape from the labyrinth's diabolical clutches. With every step, the brothers felt the pull of the universe, the push and pull of destiny. The air grew colder, the stillness more intense, as they approached the center of the maelstrom. And there, in the eye of the storm, they would come face to face with the truth they sought, a revelation that would shake the very foundations of their world. But as they drew nearer, the whispers grew louder, the mirrors more insistent. It was as if the maze itself was trying to hold them back. The reflections became more grotesque, more monstrous, and the brothers felt their sanity beginning to slip away.  

In a moment of clarity, Harry, the elder twin, turned to his brothers. “We must unite,” he shouted over the rumble of the mirrors. “We cannot let the maze destroy us!” Raymond nodded, his eyes closed in determination. “We are stronger than the sum of our fears,” he said, his voice a beacon in the madness.  

And with that, they clasped hands and moved forward, united against the onslaught of the reflected maze. The reflections became more frantic, the shadows more menacing, but the brothers did not waver. Their journey was not just a search for truth, but a battle for their souls.  

To be part of this twisted party could be the key to unraveling the mystery that had caught them all.  

Raymond, his twin, observed the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and restlessness. Their relationship was a tapestry of shared experiences on the sacrificial table and marked differences, each woven thread in a complex pattern of love for each other’s flesh, rivalry and confusion. The psychological doubles of the Grimm brothers whispered secrets in the background, their stories a macabre reminder of the consequences of deviating from the natural order of the mirror image.  

His father, a man whose severe face carried the weight of the elliptical geometry of the fourth dimension, spoke with the authority of a king. “You know the rules, Harry,” he said, his voice echoing in the room like the toll of a wooden funeral bell. “Survival requires... adjustments.” His eyes held a touch of sadness, a silent admission of horrors that had become their daily bread.  

His uncles, a collection of infamous names taken from the darkest chapters in history, nodded, their faces a dreadful pantomime of understanding. The air was thick with tension, as if the walls of the room were closing in, eager to devour the dissident voice. Yet Harry stood firm, his resolve a lighthouse in the cannibal chaos.  

The stranger, who had appeared as Liothan, leaned closer, his breath hot and disgusting. “Do you prefer to starve rather than delight in your relatives’ flesh?” he asked, his eyes shining with a madness that seemed to pierce the soul. “Such purity is rare in this kingdom.”  

The hall, a surreal amalgam of the most notorious serial killers’ scenes, throbbed with a mysterious energy. Laughter grew louder, mocking and deranged, as if the very air were alive with the spirits of the consumed. Yet, amid the cacophony, Harry heard the faint whisper of Rousseau’s pure ideas, a reminder of the natural order that had been so grotesquely perverted.  

“I prefer to find another way,” Harry said, his voice firm. “This is not right. We cannot keep feeding the beast.”  

The smile of the strange cannibal faltered, and for a moment, he seemed almost human. “Another way?” he murmured, his voice a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “Tell me, Harry, how would that be?”  

And so, the stage was set for a story of rebellion and discovery, where the line between humor and horror was as thin as a spider’s thread. Harry, armed with the legacy of William James Sidis and the absurdity of his surreal world, would navigate the treacherous jungle of family ties and social norms to discover the truth behind the monstrous appetites that ruled their lives.  

Their journey would take them through a landscape where the only certainty was the disturbing distortion of their all-too-similar doubles, each a mirror reflecting the darkest parts of their own nature. As they ventured deeper into the heart of the mystery, Harry and his brothers would encounter strangers, grotesque and profound, each holding a piece of the puzzle in the larger picture of their existence.  

The story of Harry and his family unfolded without chapters or pauses, a relentless current of consciousness that flowed like a river of ink through a nightmare landscape. It was the story of a world gone mad, where the only salvation lay in embracing the absurd and having the courage to question the very fabric of reality itself. Their words and actions danced around the central theme, a dark symphony of cannibal hunger and survival, each note resonating beneath the canopy of twisted trees watching the ritual. And as they approached the truth, the bodies of their all-too-similar doubles spun faster, a grim reminder of the price of nonconformity in a world where the only constant was the need to feed.

 the_wheel_of_the_hamster_cage_VIDEO

In the hard scarcity of the jungle, they reproduced with permanent voracity to have bodies for the cannibal sacrifice newspaper that provided the meat for the three daily meals.

"What is the password, Harry?"

"Raymond, no Harry", the man with an eyebrow was corrected, his eyes flashing in the faint light.

"Ah, correct. Sorry, Harry," said the stranger, revealing a set of bright teeth that seemed too perfect for his gloomy face.

The two men, who had a strange similarity to each other, stopped in a room full of decay and the echo distant from laughter. It was a scene directly from a fairy tale of twisted Grimm, except children and the comforting warmth of a mother's hug. They were surrounded by the psychological doubles of the characters of such a long time ago, their faces are a pattern of infamous criminals and notorious figures, each more chilling than the previous one.

"It is not a password, it is a question," the man, who insisted on being Harry, replied, his voice a mixture of discomfort and fun. "It's 'Liothan'."

The stranger's eyes illuminated with the delight of a child who found a forgotten toy. "Liothan is," he exclaimed, approaching, his silhouette becomes bigger with each step. "Now, tell me, Harry, have you seen my pet?"

"Pet?" Harry questioned, his heart accelerating. He knew that he had entered into something that he could not understand, something that twisted the fabric of reality in a surreal dance of horror and humor. His family, a collection of strange balls and eccentric geniuses, had always been a source of constant conflict, but this was beyond everything he had found. The room itself was a scene of the crime of the mind, an elliptical geometry that challenged the same laws of space.

"Yes, my pet," the stranger's smile expanded, "the one who feeds on the flesh of the too similar." His eyes recorded Harry's face, as if they were looking for a mirror image. "He was quite hungry lately, you see. The lack of variety in the forest has done it enough ... particular."

The central idea of ​​history signed in the air, a dark spectrum of cannibalism and the desperate need to survive. Harry felt his stomach turning when the words painted an image of a world where his neighbor's body was. However, in the middle of the macabre environment, the absurd of the conversation brought a twisted smile to his lips.

"I think we are all too particular for your palate," said Harry, trying to avoid the tremor of his voice. He looked around the room, the psycho's faces and their crimes were erased in a grotesque mural. The fourth dimension whispered, the call of a siren of the kingdom of pure ideas by William James Sidis. He felt the weight of Rousseau's philosophy by pressing, the need for a natural order in this Cannibal madness chaos.

The stranger's eyes narrowed. "You are not like others, right?"

"No, I'm not," said Harry, straightening his position. "I've seen this world too much, and I can't bear the idea of ​​... that."

The room became colder when the stranger took a step back. "A dissident opinion," he murmured, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "How completely fascinating."

The bodies of the people who appear in this novel revolve as the wheel in the hamster cage, trapped in an endless cycle of consumption and sacrifice. However, in the midst of the sinister shadows of the jungle, a spark of flashing of rebellion. Harry's refusal to be part of this twisted party could be the key to unraveling the mystery that had caught them all.

Raymond, his twin, observed the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and restlessness. Its relationship was a tapestry of shared experiences in the table of sacrifice and marked differences, each woven thread in a complex pattern of love to the flesh of the other, rivalry and confusion. The psychological doubles of the Grimm brothers whispered secrets in the background, their stories are a macabre reminder of the consequences of deviating from the natural order of the mirror image.

His father, a man whose severe face had the weight of the elliptical geometry of the fourth dimension, spoke with the authority of a king. "You know the rules, Harry," he said, his voice echoed in the room as the toll of a wooden funeral bell. "Survival requires ... adjustments." His eyes had a touch of sadness, a silent admission of horrors that had become their daily bread.

His uncles, a set of infamous names extracted from the darkest chapters in history, nodded, their faces are a frightful pantomime of understanding. The air was filled with tension, as if the walls of the room were approaching, eager to devour the dissident voice. However, Harry remained firm, his resolution of a lighthouse in the cannibal chaos.

The stranger, who had appeared as Liothan, bowed closer, hot and disgusting breath. "Do you prefer to starve to delight for your relatives' flesh?" He asked, his eyes shone with madness that seemed to pierce the soul. "Such purity is rare in this kingdom."

The Sala, a surreal amalgam of the most notorious serial elimination's scenes, pressed with a mysterious energy. Laughter became stronger, mocking and crazy, as if the same air was alive with the spirits of the consumed. However, in the middle of the cacophony, Harry heard the weak whisper of the pure ideas of Rousseau, a reminder of the natural order that had been so grotesquely perverted.

"I prefer to find another way," said Harry, his firm voice. "This is not right. We cannot continue feeding the beast."

The smile of the strange cannibal hesitated, and for a moment, it seemed almost human. "Another way?" He murmured, his voice a mixture of fun and curiosity. "Tell me, Harry, how are there?"

And so, the stage was prepared for a story of rebellion and discovery, where the line between humor and horror was as well as the thread of a spider. Harry, armed with the legacy of William James Sidis and the absurdity of his surreal world, would navigate the treacherous jungle of family ties and social norms to discover the truth behind the monstrous appetites who ruled their lives.

Their trip would take them through a landscape where the only certainty was the disturbing alteration of their doubles too similar, each a mirror that reflects the darkest parts of their own nature. While they ventured more deeply in the heart of the mystery, Harry and his brothers would meet strangers, grotesque and deep, each finds a piece of puzzle in the broader image of their existence.

The story of Harry and his family developed without chapters or pauses, a current current of implacable consciousness that flowed like a river of ink through a nightmare landscape. It was a story of a world that went crazy, where the only salvation was in the hug of the absurd and the courage to question the very fabric of reality itself. His words and actions danced around the central theme, a dark symphony of cannibal hunger and survival, each note that resonated through the canopy of the twisted trees observers of the ritual. And as they approached the truth, the bodies of too similar double turned faster, a gloomy reminder of the price of non -conformity in a world where the only constant was the need to feed. 

"What is the password, Harry?"

"Raymond, no Harry", the man with an eyebrow was corrected, his eyes flashing in the faint light.

"Ah, correct. Sorry, Harry," said the stranger, revealing a set of bright teeth that seemed too perfect for his gloomy face.

The two men, who had a strange similarity to each other, stopped in a room full of decay and the echo distant from laughter. It was a scene directly from a fairy tale of twisted Grimm, except children and the comforting warmth of a mother's hug. They were surrounded by the psychological doubles of the characters of such a long time ago, their faces are a pattern of infamous criminals and notorious figures, each more chilling than the previous one.

"It is not a password, it is a question," the man, who insisted on being Harry, replied, his voice a mixture of discomfort and fun. "It's 'Liothan'."

The stranger's eyes illuminated with the delight of a child who found a forgotten toy. "Liothan is," he exclaimed, approaching, his silhouette becomes bigger with each step. "Now, tell me, Harry, have you seen my pet?"

"Pet?" Harry questioned, his heart accelerating. He knew that he had entered into something that he could not understand, something that twisted the fabric of reality in a surreal dance of horror and humor. His family, a collection of strange balls and eccentric geniuses, had always been a source of constant conflict, but this was beyond everything he had found. The room itself was a scene of the crime of the mind, an elliptical geometry that challenged the same laws of space.

"Yes, my pet," the stranger's smile expanded, "the one who feeds on the flesh of the too similar." His eyes recorded Harry's face, as if they were looking for a mirror image. "He was quite hungry lately, you see. The lack of variety in the forest has done it enough ... particular."

The central idea of ​​history signed in the air, a dark spectrum of cannibalism and the desperate need to survive. Harry felt his stomach turning when the words painted an image of a world where his neighbor's body was. However, in the middle of the macabre environment, the absurd of the conversation brought a twisted smile to his lips.

"I think we are all too particular for your palate," said Harry, trying to avoid the tremor of his voice. He looked around the room, the psycho's faces and their crimes were erased in a grotesque mural. The fourth dimension whispered, the call of a siren of the kingdom of pure ideas by William James Sidis. He felt the weight of Rousseau's philosophy by pressing, the need for a natural order in this Cannibal madness chaos.

The stranger's eyes narrowed. "You are not like others, right?"

"No, I'm not," said Harry, straightening his position. "I've seen this world too much, and I can't bear the idea of ​​... that."

The room became colder when the stranger took a step back. "A dissident opinion," he murmured, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "How completely fascinating."

The bodies of the people who appear in this novel revolve as the wheel in the hamster cage, trapped in an endless cycle of consumption and sacrifice. However, in the midst of the sinister shadows of the jungle, a spark of flashing of rebellion. Harry's refusal to

 learned to love in his shadow.VIDEO

The path of lighting.

"What's the name of this path?" Alex  asked the old woman who was sitting at the foot of the huge oak that divided the path. She, with eyes tired of the passage of time, looked up from her sewing work and smiled kindly. "It's called the way of lighting," he replied. "But why?" The boy insisted, eager to discover the secret that hid the shadow that pursued him.

The old woman was silent for a moment, watching the child's worried face. "Because in this path," he said with a sigh, "those who enter must face the most hidden parts of themselves. You must carefully choose, Alex , because every step you will make a decision that will model your destiny."

With the determination of a warrior, Alex  entered the forest. The illuminated path attracted him with his brightness and whispers of promises of greatness and happiness. However, the path of the shadows called him at his own pace, showing flashes of bright colors that seemed to leave a distant carnival.

Mary, Alex 's friend, watched the scene hidden. She knew that this path was dangerous, that the powerful shadows that were entangled in travelers could drag them into madness. His older brothers told him stories of people who were lost and never returned.

Alex  walked decisively on the illuminated path, every step full of confidence. Around it, the forest seemed cozy and full of life. The birds singing gave him the feeling that everything was going to work out. While in the distance, the road of the shadows throbbing with a life of its own, with flashing lights that resembled those of the neon at night.

Mary, on the other hand, approached the old woman who now stared at her. "Why did Alex  chose the way he chose?" He interrogated him. The old woman smiled, showing a row of yellow tooth. "Because each of us," he said, "fight against his own demons. Alex  seeks the light, the solution to all his ills, without realizing that the path he chose is the one that will show him his true face."

Mary filled with fear when listening to the old woman's words. She knew that Alex  was brave, that she could face her fears. But the fear of user that was curled in the veins of her own family made her doubt. His older brothers, who once resembled Alex  in his innocence, became shadows that stalked her every night.

With his heart beating in his chest, he decided that he could not leave Alex  in front of him. With the firm decision to be the light that his friend could not see, he entered the forest, following the shine track that attracted him. She did not know where she would lead him, just that she had to protect him.

But the light that Alex  perceived began to distort himself, to become blinding. Suddenly, the shadows became real, taking the form of their greatest fears. It stopped dry, agitated breathing.

"Why do they scare me?" He told himself. "They are just shadows, they shouldn't matter."

But the figures approached, whispers of doubts and concerns that resonated in their mind. He turned around, craving the warmth of the shadow that offered him the path he did not choose. The flashing neon invited him, promised to free him from the pressure from the perfection that drown him.

Mary, on the road to the shadows, ran into Alex's figure, now an exaggerated cartoon of her ideal self. "What's the matter?" He shouted at him, trying to listen to his friend over the noise of the carnival that surrounded him.

Alex  looked at her without seeing her, smiling in the light that clouded her mind. "I'm fine," he said, without realizing that his eyes shone with a false light. "This is what I wanted, what I deserve."

Mary noticed the tension on her shoulders, the rigidity in her movements. She knew that her friend was not happy, that she got tangled up on the network of her own user. With trembling hands, he extended his, offering a bridge between light and darkness.

With a supreme effort, Alex  took Mary's hand. The earth under his feet shuddered, and the shadows vanished in the gloom. Together, they entered into the darkness of the road of the shadows, the light that Alex  once yearned now looked distant and misleading.

As they advanced, the life of the forest became real, palpable. The air was dense with the stories of those who walked there, the sorrows and joys that were intertwined with the roots of the trees. Alex  and Mary faced their own fears, every step an act of courage.

The old woman, who watched them in the distance, nodded. They not only chose the right path; They chose to grow. Now, the shadow that persecuted them vanished, replaced by the light of understanding.

Together, Alex  and Mary toured the path of the shadows, healing the wounds of the past. Each scar that was cured as they advanced allowed them to see more clearly who they really were, free of user and the expectations that tormented them.

When leaving the forest, the sun welcomed them, their faces illuminated by the light of dawn. The life that awaited them was uncertain, full of challenges and decisions. But now, armed with the wisdom of the forest, they knew they could face them with courage.

His friendship was strengthened, he became inseparable. Together, they would become the light that illuminated the path of others, showing that life was not only a straight path, but an adventure full of bifurcations and options.

And in the book store of Mr. Castle, the couple of friends would discover stories that would reflect their own trips, stories that would remind them that life was a constant struggle for the light in which we all had to participate. Alex  and Mary would spend hours there, sharing their experiences, their fears and their triumphs.

One day, Alex  brought a story that his grandfather told him, about a magical mirror that reflected the hidden truth in each one's soul. Mr. Castle listened carefully, and his face lit up with the idea. "That story," he said, "is the key to understanding life."

With the help of the old man, the two friends undertook the search for their own truth. Every page they read turned a mirror, showing the hidden faces of their hearts. Alex  faced his own vanity and the fear of disappointment, While Mary reconciled with her shyness and the shadow that accompanied her.

Together, in the refuge of stories, they discovered that life was not a simple choice between light and darkness. It was a winding path that both, and the real challenge was to learn to accept the parts of one that hid in the gloom.

With each page that revolved, Alex  and Mary approached understanding. The magical mirror was not a treasure that was at the end of a road, but a tool that they could load on their own trip. And as the sunlight was leaked through the windows of the premises, reflecting on the shelves full of books, I knew that the life that awaited them was a self -knowledge and growth, not of the evasion of the shadows. With each adventure that lived through the pages of the books, the two children grew, each illuminating the life of the other. Their friendship was strengthened, and the shadow that once separated them became a bond that united them, a constant reminder that the light was only when accepting the darkness.

And on each page they read, life became a mirror. Alex  learned to love in his shadow, to see her not as a defect, but as an opportunity to grow. And Mary, who once hid behind the shadows of shyness, discovered that the light of her courage could illuminate the road not only for her, but for all those around her.

Beyond the forest, the road continued, and with every step they took, life became a mirror. Alex  and Mary would face life with the wisdom that reading gave them, knowing that the light and shadow will coexist in every human being, and that the key was to learn to  Proyect both.

The magical mirror of the story became a symbol of his friendship, a reminder that life was a mirror that reflected what we allowed us to. And in the heat of the summer, sitting on the sidewalk of the book store, they would share stories that would make them laugh, cry and reflect, stories that would make them stronger, wiser.

Alex  and Mary realized that life was a mirror that reflected their decisions. Each path taken, every shadow faced, every light discovered, formed the image that the mirror reflected. And as the mirror became clearer, their hearts were filled with light.

And the old woman, sitting at the foot of the oak, smiled. 

Each character following his own mirror.

"When was the last time you saw Harry?" The disturbing question echoed in the room, interrupting the silence that resembled the stillness that precedes the storm. The brothers, Raymond and Harry, were sitting at the breakfast table, each with their own thoughts. Harry, the blue -eyed brother and disheveled hair, looked up from his cup of coffee, the vaporous image of his brother reflected in the empty half cup.

"What are you talking about?" Harry replied, his soft and serene tone. "Are you not talking about the Harry who disappeared last summer?"

Raymond, with brown eyes and mourning mustache, sighed deeply. "Yes, Harry. That Harry. The one who was supposed to be my twin. The one who shared my life and my soul. The one who disappeared without a trace and now, suddenly, he reappears."

A strange silence seized the environment, filling the stay with a palpable tension. The wall clocks, with their hands that seemed paralyzed, observed the scene without emitting any sound. Life on the farm stopped for a moment, and Harry's metal spoon stopped on his journey to his mouth, vibrating gently.

"Why do you bring that now?" Harry continued, his frown. "Have you had any vision? Something that makes me believe that I am not crazy?"

Raymond scratched his beard, his face reddened with tension. "No, I haven't had visions. But I feel there is ... something that doesn't fit. Something I can't explain. Memories that are not mine, voices I can't ignore."

Outside, the birds ceased their song, the breeze stopped, and the sky was dyed with a leading gray tone. Life in the village was now distorted, through a mirror fogged by morning moisture. It was the beginning of an enigma that would enter the deep roots of reality they thought they knew. "But, if it is true, if my twin brother has returned ... then who am I?" Harry was questioned, his eyes filled with anguish.

Raymond stared at him, with an enigmatic smile. "That's what we have to find out."

In the basement of the farm, they discovered a mirror that reflected a parallel universe. Something that seemed out of William James Sidis's imagination, the genius they talked about in knives through the village. There, the fourth dimension of elliptical geometry crossed with the gloomy stories of the Grimm brothers, creating a disconcerting landscape that challenged the laws of logic. The characters in real life merge with the delusions of literature, giving life to a burlesque nightmare.

The doors of reality opened in par, revealing the existence of alternate worlds inhabited by Harry's twins, each with their own personality and tragic destiny. In each reflection, in each mirror, Harry's spectral figure watched them, his eyes shining with a dark glow. The brothers, bewildered, entered the search for the truth behind the disappearance of the true Harry, walking along paths that twisted and bifurcied in each step, in a maze of mirrors that made them doubt their own identity.

In the distance, they heard the echo of sinister laughs that seemed to come from the minds of the famous criminals who now formed their own village. Jack's crimes The dancer, Sherlock Holmes ingenuity and the madness of El Joker exchanged in a macabre dance of shadows and reflexes. Every face they saw was a piece of the puzzle, each reflection a track in this mystery that was getting entangled as they advanced.

While the storm approached, the sky became more and darker, and the earth trembled with the rage of the silenced voices. Harry, caught in the spiral of doubt, faced the possibility that the life that his soul was not in, that his soul was shared with delusional beings, felt more and more alone. His reflection moved from one mirror to another, and the image he saw was distorted, showing childhood faces that he did not remember, memories that did not belong to him, worlds that did not exist.

But fear became determination. Harry was not going to allow the shadow of his twin to consume it. He decided to face reality, or at least, the reality that was presented to him. Gathering the pieces of the puzzle, he entered the dimension that Rousseau spoke, the purity of life without the bonds of society. There, in the enchanted forest of primitive life, I would find the answer he was looking for.

With each step, life became increasingly absurd, the sounds faded in the breeze, the shadows became their own life. Harry, now accompanied by the strange delegation of Doppelgängers literary, undertook a trip that challenged reason, guided by the light that leaked through the leaves, the wet earth that moved under his feet, and the whisper of life that escaped from the earth.

The mirror broke into pieces, and reality vanished, giving way to chaos of reflexes and shadows that moved and tangled up in a demonic dance.

"It's you, Harry?" The figure spoke to him, his voice echoing in his mind. "Is it that you are looking for?"

Raymond, who accompanied him on his trip, looked around disoriented. "What are you seeing, Harry?"

But Harry couldn't answer. He was caught in the network of his own existence, struggling to distinguish the reality of illusion. Suddenly, the figure approached, and Harry could see that it was not a broken mirror, but the life reflected in a thousand pieces, each with a different destiny. "How can I know who I am?" Harry shouted, desperate. "How can I know if I'm, if I'm?"

The figure laughed, a laugh that was both everyone's and anyone else. "Life is a mirror that breaks at every moment. Your identity, Harry, is the one you choose."

With the storm roaring around him, Harry turned around. In the distance, the farm of his childhood rose, lonely and desolate. His parents, his brothers, all the characters of the stories they told him, stirred in the window, trying to communicate with him. But I didn't listen to them anymore. He had made a decision.

He undertook the way back, accompanied by the shadow that now knew it was his own. At every step, the earth moved under his feet, and the shadows twisted in grotesque forms, dancing to the rhythm of his doubts. The gray sky opened, and the rain began to fall, wetting the earth, cleaning the mirror of life that was curled in his soul.

Upon entering the farm, life seemed to continue without him. His uncles, his cousins, all discussed heatedly, his voices creating chaos that resonated in the room. Harry stopped, watching the scene. Life, madness, reality, everything melted into a whirlwind of absurd.

"How can you doubt?" The shadow whispered to his ear. "You are the life you have lived, the sum of all your fears and your dreams."

And Harry knew it was true. That life was not a mirror that broke, but a mirror that was constantly formed with every decision he made. That the spectral figure he feared was his own shadow, his own doubt. And that the key to facing the mystery of his twin, his identity, lay in his ability to accept the complexity of existence.

With a sigh, he joined the conversation, listening to the voices of the people around him. The discussions stopped, and everyone looked at him, expectant. "What is Harry's opinion?" He asked one of his uncles.

And Harry, with an enigmatic smile, replied: "My opinion is that life is too rare, too beautiful, to be understood in the light of logic. You have to get carried away by imagination, by madness, by mystery. That is what I will do."

And with that, life on the farm continued, each character following his own mirror, each living his own life, each fighting against his own shadow. And the Earth, the Earth that gave life and the removed.