The Isle of Poplars was not an island at all but a floating argument, a quarrel-shaped landmass where trees grew in the geometric patterns of unresolved family debates. Its roots coiled like the entrails of a clock swallowed whole by the earth, and its leaves whispered gossip in dead languages. Here, the wayfarer—known to his mother as *“that ungrateful echo”* and to his father as *“the tax deduction I never claimed”*—was buried beneath a cairn of mismatched cutlery, for spoons, in this family, were considered holy relics of indecision. His coffin, a repurposed grandfather clock missing its pendulum, ticked backward in protest, as if death were a meeting adjourned prematurely by a particularly petty uncle.    The parents arrived first: his mother, a woman who wore her grudges as hats (today’s was a feathered tricorn from the Great Quarrel of ’87), and his father, a man whose mustache curled into the punctuation marks of unsent letters. They stood at the shore, where the water was not water but liquid algebra, lapping at their shoes in quadratic equations. “He should’ve been buried in a teapot,” hissed the mother, adjusting her grievance-hat. “A teapot!” echoed the father, though his mustache twisted into a semicolon, suggesting he’d planned to say something else entirely.    The twin siblings arrived next, conjoined at the opinion—a two-headed hydra of contradiction. One head insisted the wayfarer’s death was a metaphor for capitalism; the other argued it was a poorly timed pun about existentialism. They carried a wreath of deflated balloons, each printed with a different political slogan, because nothing said *“eternal rest”* like a helium-free manifesto. “He hated balloons,” sighed the left head. “He hated existence,” corrected the right. Together, they lobbed the wreath into the algebraic sea, where it dissolved into a syllogism.    Then came the uncles and aunts, a parade of malfunctioning metaphors. Uncle Mortimer, who’d replaced his skeleton with a filing cabinet, clanked forward, drawers spilling overdue invoices and a petrified owl. “Burying him here is *economically unsound*,” he intoned, slamming a drawer shut on his own thumb. Aunt Eudora, whose skin was a patchwork of expired warranties, cackled as she released a flock of bureaucratic starlings from her handbag. “The island’s zoning laws forbid melancholic interments!” she screeched, though the starlings immediately unionized and began picketing the coffin.    The grandparents—both natural and in-law—emerged from a fold in the horizon, dragging their respective baggage. Grandma Natural, a woman composed entirely of unanswered *“Why?”* questions, floated inches above the ground, her hair a storm cloud drizzling rhetorical inquiries. Grandpa In-Law, meanwhile, was a walking lawsuit, his limbs bristling with cease-and-desist orders. “This burial violates subsection 12-B of the *Universal By-Laws of Grief*,” he thundered, though Grandma Natural interrupted by materializing a gavel from thin air and banging it against his left kneecap.    Amid the chaos, the wayfarer’s ghost sat cross-legged atop his coffin, nibbling spectral toast. *“I told them to cremate me,”* he muttered to a disinterested seagull (which was, in fact, a reincarnated philosopher cursed to critique existentialism through squawks). *“But no, they had to turn my death into a committee meeting.”* The seagull retorted with a Kierkegaardian screech, which roughly translated to *“Subjectivity is a landfill,”* before stealing a crumb of ectoplasmic bread.    The central conflict erupted when Uncle Mortimer—whose filing-cabinet ribs rattled with fiscal resentment—declared the Isle of Poplars a *“hostile workplace environment.”* “The trees are unionizing!” he bellowed, pointing at a poplar that had begun distributing pamphlets titled *“Roots Against Exploitation.”* The family splintered into factions: the parents formed the *Coalition for Aesthetically Appropriate Funerals* (motto: *“Death is a décor choice!”*), while the twins launched a guerrilla poetry campaign, scribbling haikus about class struggle on the coffin with permanent marker.    But it was Aunt Eudora who acted against the execution of the central theme. “The wayfarer isn’t *adrift*—he’s *misclassified*!” she protested, hurling a stapler at Grandma Natural’s storm-cloud hair. “He’s a contractor, not an employee! No severance package!” Her dissent manifested physically: the algebraic ocean solidified into a spreadsheet, trapping the coffin in a cell labeled *“Unpaid Overtime (Eternity).”* The Isle of Poplars shuddered, its debate-shaped geography collapsing into a flowchart, and the wayfarer’s ghost sighed as his toast turned to dust. *“Typical,”* he groaned. *“They’ve managed to bureaucratize the afterlife.”

By Carlos del Puente relatos

In the picturesque city of Fluttersby, where the trees had the peculiar habit of throwing brightness instead of leaves, a peculiar man called Alister McFlapple lived. He was known for his unwavering belief in the beauty of movement. Every morning, Alister emerged from his little uneven house dressed in his pair of favorite mole overalls, which he according to him was the most aerodynamic outfit for a man of his stature. His hair, a wild fight of straw curls, swayed while running in place in the place, warming up for the adventure of the day. The townspeople, who were used to their eccentricities, would bow their hats and exchange knowledge smiles as they advanced.  "Good morning, Mr. McFlapple," said Mrs. Jenkins, her wide figure got into a dress that looked like a fruit salad.  "Tomorrow, Mrs. J!" Alister shouted, his voice a strange mixture of horn and giggled. "The world is in a wiggle today!"  Mrs. Jenkins laughed between teeth and continued her bamboleo down the street. Alister's parents, a severe couple called Edgar and Edwina McFlapple, observed from their window, their faces are a disapproval box. They hoped that his son's fascination with the movement would decrease over time, but in any case, he had only become more intense.  In a city where everyone was perpetually in motion, the twins Fred and George McFlapple, Alister's brothers, had reached the skies with their homemade wings. Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Bartholomew, who lived in a floating house, did not agree with the vehemence of Alister's beliefs. They found their insistence on staying on completely absurd land. "Why walk when you can fly?" They often asked, their eyes shone with open skies emotion. But Alister was unwavering. He believed that true art was in the dancing of the earth, not in the rise of heaven treaters. On the other side of the street, the twin sisters of the twins, Flora and Fauna McFlapple, practiced their ballet pirouettes on a grass that spread like a liquid carpet. His tutus fluttered around while they turned, creating a vertiginous variety of colors. Alister's heart swollen with pride. Despite his love shared by the movement, the preferences of the brothers were as different as their hairstyles: Flora is in tight curls, fauna is a wild waterfall of waves. His grace and balance were a testimony of the unlimited variety of beauty found in the world of movement.  The sun threw a light kaleidoscope on the city, and the residents, in all its peculiar glory, continued their daily routines. Meanwhile, Alister's inflexible belief in the beauty of the movement stirred something deep within him, an idea that would soon challenge the tissue of Fluttersby's capricious reality.  A peculiar afternoon, while the clouds formed the forms of the dancers of twisted dance hall, Alister brought together his twin brothers, Fred, George, Flora and Fauna, in the backyard of the McFlapple family. The lawn, which had the habit of changing tone with the mood of the day, was a serene tone of mint. He presented them with a gadget, a mixture of bicycle, trampoline and kaleidoscope, which called the "terrestrial elegance." The twins, always the Daredevils, looked at him skepticism. "Why would we want to stay on the ground when we can dance among the clouds?" They joke.  Ignoring his jokes, Alister climbed into the earth's elegance with the grace of a gazelle and began pedaling. The wheels, instead of turning, began to press like a beat. The gadget grew in size, turning colors around it, creating a fascinating show that had the neighbors, including a cat that played the tuba, looking amazed. While Alister pedaled faster, the grass under it began to rise, forming a soft hill that grew and grew. His brothers observed how the hill became a mountain, and soon the earth's elegance looked like a colorful lighthouse in its peak.  The grandparents of the in -laws, which communicated only through interpretive dance, made an improvised routine of shock and confusion, their limbs stirred in a silent symphony of disbelief. The City Council, composed of floating fish in bowling players, took note of the phenomenon and called an emergency meeting. The central theme of its discussion was whether Alister's creation was an abomination to the lifestyle of the city's sky or a avant -garde masterpiece that could revolutionize the very concept of movement.  While the council discussed, the hill grew so high that it scraped the bellies of the clouds. The twins, feeling a mixture of admiration and jealousy, decided to prove the earth's elegance. To their surprise, they found a strange comfort in the rhythmic pulse of the pedals, the way the world was erased on a color canvas around them. They began to understand Alister's perspective, which in fact there was a beauty in the simplicity and control of the movement that could never be replicated by the caprices of the air.  The city now gathered around the hill base, observed how the McFlapple brothers performed a synchronized dance about the earth's elegance, each pulse sends them higher in the sky. The view was so surreal that even Uncle Cedric, who believed that the world was flat and made of jelly, had to admit that perhaps, perhaps, Alister was in something. And so, the McFlaple family, once a discord painting, became a unit of unity, each woven thread with a unique tone of belief in the beauty of the movement. The townspeople of Fluttersby, inspired by the creation of Alister, began to explore the wonders of the ground under his feet. The dynamics of the city changed, and a new art form arose, one that did not require wings or anti -rave boots, only the will to feel the pulse of the earth and the courage to express it through dance.  But in the midst of this new harmony, a question remained in the air, as disturbing as a flat note in a symphony. What would happen when the elegance of the earth was stopped? Would the hill dissipate, chopped into the abyss of the forgotten roots of the city? Or would it be the basis of a new era, where heaven was no longer the only stage of the ballet of life? The answer remained suspended, like a pen in a tornado, while the brothers danced, their hearts accelerated with emotion and fear. The only certainty was that nothing in Fluttersby would be the same again.  The faces that were once skilled of the twins were now recorded of amaze children. On them, uncle Bartholomew and Aunt Gertrude floated in his floating house, their expressions a mixture of admiration and confusion. They had never seen their relatives embrace the earth with such passion. The City Council, after a heated debate where the fish had to calm down through a spoonful of lemon juice, reached a consensus. Earth's elegance was a show that transcended the ordinary, a monument to unlimited movement possibilities. He was declared an official attraction of the city and commissioned Alister to build more, each more extravagant than the previous one. The McFlapple brothers became the children of the city's poster for the art of land dance, their faces in and posters that fluttered in the breeze along with those of their floating ancestors.  But as the days became weeks, the novelty of earthly elegance began to decrease. The townspeople, always anxious for the next great sensation, were inequitably. They whispered with a new invention, a machine that could turn the thoughts of one into tangible objects. The whispers became stronger, the palpable emotion. Alister, feeling the weight of her creation, knew she had to act. He retired to his workshop, surrounded by the ghosts of his past experiments, and began playing once more.  In the quiet loneliness, his thoughts stirred like a tornado in a cup of tea. What happens if the beauty of the movement was not only the greatness of the show? What would happen if it were the subtlety, the delicate interaction of the invisible forces that promoted each living creature? With a flickering of inspiration, he set aside gears and gears and sought something much more intricate: the fabric of reality itself. His hands trembled while joining a new vision, one that would challenge the very essence of the understanding of the Fluttersby movement.  The brothers, feeling their brother's agitation, gathered around. They knew that Alister was in something deep, something that could raise them to new heights or send them in spiral to the unknown. While they saw him work, the room full of silent tension that was almost palpable. It was as if everyone was on the edge of a cliff, about to jump to a vacuum they had not yet kept.  The new creation took shape, a delicate network of light and shadow. It was different from everything they had seen, a particle dance that seemed only in the periphery of the vision. Alister took a step back, his chest stirred with emotion, and offered an attempt smile. "This," he said, "is the dance of quantum quarks."  The brothers exchanged looks, a mixture of amazement and trepidation. They knew that their brother had ventured once again in an unknown territory, pushing the limits of what they thought it was possible. While preparing to prove the new invention, the same air in the workshop buzzed in advance. The dance of the quantum quarks promised a trip to the heart of the movement, a place where the only constant was to change itself.  And thus, the McFlapples, united in their inflexible belief in the beauty of the movement, were in the precipice of a new chapter in the history of Fluttersby. Their hearts were a cacophony of hope and fear, their souls prepared for a jump of faith. Because they knew that if they shot through the clouds or danced on the earth, the true essence of their art was on the trip, not at the destination. And it was a trip that were ready to undertake together, so May.  The brothers took their places around the dance of quantum quarks, each was a living incarnation of a force of nature. Fred and George, the daring, were like the wind, invisible but powerful, guiding the networks of light and shadow. Flora and fauna, with its elegant elegance, were the incarnation of the flow of rivers, soft and unstoppable. And Alister, the visionary, was the heart of beating, which established the rhythm for the dance to arrive.  As they began to move, the lattice work shone and click, responding to each step. The air became thick with the aroma of the possibility, a perfume that tickles the nostrils and made the hairs on the back of the foot neck. The people of the city, who had gathered outside the workshop, observed with silent astonishment while the brothers danced with precision that seemed to challenge the fabric of reality.  The dance of the quantum quarks grew in intensity, the colors turned faster and faster, the movements of the brothers became an edge of movement and light. The hill under them began to dissolve in a cloud of brightness, and for a short and scary moment, it seemed to be about to fall. But the cloud remained firm, the work of lattice now a solid and unwavering force. They danced, now a symphony of earthly elegance that resonated with the very core of the universe.  When the dance arrived at his crescendo, the bright cloud began to merge on a ladder that made way to the sky, a bridge between the kingdoms of the punished and the severity he challenges. The city, once divided by the whims of the heavens and the charm of the earth, now observed how the brothers ascended to the stairs, each step is a declaration of unity, each movement is a testimony of the beauty of its shared belief.  The twins climbed the stairs with the grace of the gazelles, jumping and jumping with a joy that was infectious. Flora and fauna rose and slide, their tutus flutter like the petals of cosmic flowers. And Alister, in the center, pedaled his heart, his laughter a large number of bells that resonated in the heavens.  The grandparents of the in -laws, their interpretive dance now a silent assent of approval, saw their grandchildren, their bright fish eyes of pride. The skeptical people, now turned into believers, encouraged them, their applause a thunderous symphony that seemed to shake the stars themselves.  When they reached the top, the staircase dissipated in a shower of sparks, leaving the brothers floating in the air, their movements now as unlimited as the sky itself. The city of Fluttersby looked up in amazement, their hearts swelled with a new respect for the beauty of movement in all its forms.  For Alister McFlapple, he had shown them that if they danced on earth or played in the clouds, the true magic lies in the act of moving, embracing the change and finding harmony in the chaos of existence. And as the brothers descended, their laughter stopped as a tape in the wind, they knew that their city would never be the same, that they had woven a new beauty tapestry that would be remembered for the coming generations.  The history of the McFlapples and the earthly elegance became a legend, a story that the parents told their children while putting them in bed. It was a reminder that sometimes, the deepest truths could be found in the most unexpected places, that the most beautiful movements did not have to be great to be significant, and that in a world of perpetual movement, the most rebellious act was for stop and dance.  But life, always the cheater, had other plans. A fateful night, when the sun submerged under the horizon, painting the sky with the colors of a melted rainbow, a mysterious figure appeared in the city square. It was tall and laundut, with a cup hat that challenges the laws of gravity, pointing towards the heavens. The figure, which was presented as the teacher of the inert, said to bring a new art form to Fluttersby, the art of absolute stillness.  The people of the town, always curious, gathered around them, anxious to see what this strange man had to offer. He spoke of a world where movement was nothing more than an illusion, a distraction of the true beauty of existence. His words were like the song of a siren, and soon, the whispers of his teachings began to spread around the city, weaving a seductive melody that tickles the ears of those who heard him. The brothers, once united in their belief, found themselves torn. Fred and George, whom they had always loved the emotion of the heavens, were intrigued by the idea of ​​flying without wings. Flora and fauna, whose hearts were rooted on earth, felt a strange pull towards this new form of expression. And Alister, the creator of the earth's elegance, felt his beliefs challenged to his nucleus.  The inert master offered a demonstration of his art, and the City Council, once the scenario for innumerable air acrobatic shows, was now full of the anticipation of something completely different. The brothers observed from the balcony, their heavy hearts with doubts and curiosity.  In the center of the hall, the teacher was still, his closed eyes, his body as rigid as a statue. The room was silent, the only sound of the distant cost of a bell that seemed to resonate from the same fabric of reality. And then something extraordinary happened. The air around him became thick, as if he had been painted with invisible brushstrokes, and the forms began to form. It was a dance, but did not require movement. It was a dance of the mind, a ballet of thought that painted the air with more vivid images than any physical performance.  The brothers looked at each other, with very open eyes of astonishment and a touch of fear. They had never seen anything like that, and shook the foundations of what they believed. Was it possible that the beauty of the movement was overcome by the elegance of stillness?  The demonstration ended, and the city was full of emotion. Some were eager to learn from the teacher, while others remained firm in their love on the ground. The McFlapples, however, were silent, lost in their own thoughts. They knew that their world was about to change again, that the pendulum of beauty was swinging in a new direction, and they were not sure if they were ready to continue.  That night, while the stars on Fluttersby shone like a thousand mischievous eyes, the brothers gathered in their childhood game room. The walls, once adorned with posters of dancers and famous athletes, now contained the shadows of their own dilemmas. They talked about their fears, their hopes and their love for movement. It was a conversation that was a confession and an understanding plea.  And while talking, he realized them. The beauty of the movement was not on earth or in heaven, but in the balance between the two. It was the harmony of the seen and the invisible, the interaction of light and darkness, the symphony of existence itself. They had been so focused on their own beliefs that they had forgotten the very essence of their art: Freedom. With a newly discovered resolution, the brothers set out to create a show that would unite the city once again, an action that celebrated the joy of the earth and the unlimited of the heavens. They worked tirelessly, their imagination a forest fire that consumed the night, leaving only the brightness of creation in its path.  When the day of the great performance arrived, the city was in flames of emotion. The stage was established, a perfect combination of earth and sky, and the brothers took their places, their hearts beat in unison. The inert teacher observed from the wings, an indication of a smile playing on his lips. He knew that his dance would be something special, something that transcended the limitations of his world.  While the brothers took their places on stage, the air was filled in advance. The multitude below, a sea of ​​faces painted with a spectrum of emotions, contained breath in unison. The teacher of the inert stillness had allowed them to yearn for the family rhythm of the movement, but also intrigued by the unexplored kingdom of motionless.  The music, a composition of the creation of the brothers itself, began to play. It was a melody that seemed to embody the very essence of the universe, a symphony that whispered secrets of the cosmos. It started as a soft murmur, the sound of a distant beat, and became stronger, wrapping the audience in its pulsating hug.  Alister, Fred, George, Flora and Fauna moved as one, their bodies a tapestry of light and shadow. They danced on stage that it was both the earth and the sky, its fluid and precise movements. Earth's elegance had evolved, now a living and respiratory entity that responded to all its whims. The people of the city once divided watched in amazement how the brothers demonstrated a dance that was as rooted as ethereal.  The performance of the brothers was a visual party, a fusion of the tangible and intangible. They jumped and turned, their bodies challenging gravity as they entered and left the light networks. However, there were moments of absolute stillness, where the time itself seemed to stop, keeping the audience captive in the palms of their extended hands. It was a dance that spoke of unity and duality, a celebration of the infinite possibilities that were in the balance between movement and stillness.  The crowd observed, paralyzed, while the brothers danced the dance of the harmonious equinox. The time skeptical town now saw beauty both on earth and in the unlimited. They saw that the true essence of the movement was not at the extremes, but in the harmony that could be found in the middle. The brothers had not only created a new art form, but they had also closed the gap between the old and the new, the earthly and the celestial. The performance reached its climax, a moment of pure stillness where the brothers were, suspended in the air, their bodies a silent beauty picture. The music became quieter, the air itself seemed to contain breathing in reverence. And then, as if it were on the signal, the terrestrial elegance was transformed, the Network of Light that surrounds them as a warm hug.  They descended to the stage, his feet gently touched the ground. The music became a crescendo, the lights became more bright and the City Council exploded in a thunderous applause. The brothers had not only demonstrated the beauty of the movement, but they had also shown that true magic was in the harmony of opposites. Fluttersby was changed forever. The city, once a constant place of movement, now embraced the art of stillness. The brothers continued to act, their testimony of the unlimited beauty of the movement, both earthly and very high. And although the inert teacher had left them with a deep lesson, it was his own dance that had become the city's beat.  In the quiet moments that followed the grand finale, while the brothers took their arches and the applause vanished slowly, they knew that their trip was far from finishing. They had learned that the beauty of the movement was not alone in the dance but in the unity of all forms of expression. And while they looked at the faces of their village companions, their hearts full of warmth that exceeded the brightness of the sun, knew that together they had created something much more significant than any act of rebellion or conformity. They had created a legacy of harmony, a reminder that in an infinite world of movement, sometimes the most beautiful moments were the ones that stopped.  The brothers decided to expand their art, opening a school that taught the dance of the harmonious equinox. Students from all areas of life went to school, eager to learn the delicate balance of movement and stillness. They practiced in the town square, their movements a silent poetry that spoke with the hearts of all who observed. The name of McFlapple was no longer associated with a single peculiar belief but with a vision that had captured Fluttersby's imagination.  But as the days became months, a new challenge emerged. A rival school, led by a charismatic figure known as the whirlwind, said that the essence of beauty was in perpetual motion, that stillness was a prison for the soul. The philosophy of the whirlwind was the antithesis of the McFlapple and soon, the city was divided once again, the air full of tension of the competing ideologies.  The brothers, who had ever delighted in their shared belief, were now browsing a mined field of opinions. They had to face the reality that not everyone would find peace in their harmony. However, they remained firm, their performances were silently refuted to the chaotic ballet of the whirlwind. The city was now a canvas for an epic dance, each step and revolves a statement of its convictions.  A fateful day, as the brothers prepared for their most important performance so far, earthly elegance began to click with a life of their own. The colors became more vibrant, the most intricate network work, as if they were alive, responding to the very essence of their beliefs. The brothers looked at each other, a mixture of emotion and concern recorded on their faces. They knew that this was not just a dance but a proof of their unit, a proof of the same fabric of their world.  The stage was established, the music ready to play, and the public held its collective breath. As the brothers began to move, the terrestrial elegance grew, reaching to heaven, a bridge that united the kingdoms of what was seen and the invisible. The dance was a symphony of light and shadow, a testimony of the power of balance. And when they arrived at Crescendo, a sudden wind gust swept the city, sending spiral whirlwind dancers in the air. But instead of seeing them fall, the brothers spread, their movements are a silent invitation. And when his hands met, the Bullfellino of the dancers decreased, his frantic energy merged with the elegant elegance of the brothers. The two schools, once rivals, became one, their movements a visual representation of the harmony they had tried to achieve.  The crowd exploded in applause, their hearts swelled with hope and joy. The brothers had not only demonstrated the beauty of their art, but they had also demonstrated the power of unity in a city that only knew the division. As the curtain fell, the McFlapple looked into each other, a silent recognition of the deep impact they had. Because in a world of always changing sands, they had found the beauty of being firm, together and allowing the dance of life to develop around them.  The days that followed were an activity whirlwind. The brothers worked tirelessly to merge the teachings of their school with those of the whirlwind, creating a curriculum that celebrated the complete spectrum of the movement. The students who were once rivals now practiced next to each other, their steps weaving a unit tapestry. However, under the surface of this new harmony, a question remained: how long could they maintain this delicate balance?  The brothers knew that the true proof of their beliefs would come when the city faced a challenge that demanded a united front. And as the stations changed, the whispers became a concern crescendo. A mysterious force threatened Fluttersby, a force that could shake the foundations of his world. It was said that it was a creature of pure anti-motif, a being that delighted with the very essence of stillness and sought to immerse the city in an eternal dance of chaos.  The City Council is now composed of fish and lifts, convened an emergency meeting. They knew that the brothers' dance had the power to counteract the evil influence of the creature. But while they argued their strategy, they realized that the beauty of their art was not only in the dance itself but in the shared belief that had united them. They had to convince the city to join, to embrace both the grounded and the unlimited, to become the very essence of the harmonious equinox.  The brothers took to the streets, their dance is a silent plea for unity. They danced in the town square, in the roofs, and even in the clouds, their movements resonated with the hearts of the townspeople. The air became thick with the aroma of change, an aroma that seemed to stir something deep inside Fluttersby's very fabric. And as the creature of the motion approached, the city stopped as one, its collective belief in the beauty of the movement, a lighthouse that could not be ignored.  The creature, a monstrous amalgamation of the shadow and the doubt, faced the city, his eyes a rotating maelstrom of chaos. The brothers took their place in the heart of the city, earthly elegance by clicking with the energy of their belief. When they began to dance, the air itself became dense, a wall of protection against the attack of the creature.  His movements were a symphony of challenge, every step a statement of his inflexible spirit. The creature roared, its tentacles of stillness approaches to catch the city. But the brothers' dance was stronger. He grew, swollen with the power of his unit, and soon, the creature was wrapped in a tornado of color and light. The brothers danced, their hearts beat synchronizing with the collective pulse of the city, until the creature was nothing more than a memory that fades.  Then, Fluttersby was not only saved but it was transformed. The city had faced void and arose stronger, its belief in the beauty of the movement is a link that could never break. The brothers, once seen as rebels, were now acclaimed as heroes, their dance is a symbol of hope in a world of change. And while they stopped in the tranquility of the town square, their hearts beat over time with the beats of their creation, they knew that their legacy would live, a testimony of the power of unity and unlimited beauty of the movement.  But with each victory comes a new challenge, and soon whispers from a land without movement began echoing the streets. It was said that this place was a mirror for Fluttersby, a kingdom where the same air was as still as a painting. Intrigue, the brothers decided to embark on a trip, explore the extremes of their art and perhaps find a new source of inspiration.  Their trips took them through static butterfly fields and frozen tree forests, each dance step with the same fabric of reality. They found creatures that moved in a way they had never imagined, their forms of always changing colored colors that seemed to make fun of the idea of ​​stillness. However, in the midst of this chaos, they found moments of peace, moments when the beauty of the movement was distilled to its purest form. Upon their return, they brought with them a new understanding, an understanding that the dance of life was not only the movement of the body but the movement of the soul. They infused their actions with this new wisdom, their dance now a silent conversation with the very essence of existence. The city, once divided by the whims of gravity, now saw the beauty in each step, every breath, every flutter of a wing.  And thus, the McFlapples continued to dancing, their art is a constant testimony of the power of belief. They taught the city to see the world not only in terms from above and down, but from inside and outside the infinite dance that was developed in every corner of the universe. And as the years passed, their legacy grew, the names of the brothers recorded in the annals of the history of Fluttersby as pioneers of a new type of beauty, a beauty that did not know limits, a beauty that was the very essence of the very Movement itself. Until the day the movement when falling broke into immobile pieces.

By Carlos del Puente relatos

Why would someone want to go to that island? Uncle Larry mocked, stroking his wild mustache, letting grow without any abundant scissor company long years, with a fatty napkin. "It's just a lot of rocks with an unpleasant reputation, if you ask me."  The family gathered around the table, the air full of aroma of the questionable meat of aunt Edna meat. The theme of the mysterious island had been a hot issue for weeks, since the local Tourism Board had begun to administer its ridiculous ads.  "But the landscapes," my mother sighed, her eyes glazed with the same emotion that had put her in trouble before. "They say it's nothing we have seen."  "Yes, and that is probably because nobody returns to tell the story!" Uncle Larry's laugh resonated around the room, bouncing on the walls covered with old plastics accumulated during the twentieth century, and causing the spider lamp to be a rattle.  My twin brothers, Tim and Tom, exchanged a complicated smile. They had heard this argument before. "Mom, you are not really thinking of going, right?" Tom asked, his voice a mixture of fun and concern.  "Well, I've always had an adventure spirit," she replied with a brightness in the left eye that was the most open.  "And look where he took you with dad's magical beans," Dad intervened, his voice as dry as the meat cake.  The room exploded in laughter, but the brightness in Mom's eye did not vanish, on the contrary: more brightness. She had always been the one who pursued rainbow when she was very small, with the flagrant innocent childhood. While Dad was firmly planted in the hard ground of reality.  "Besides," he continued, "not every day you can see a real -life monster." "Real life monster?" I released, my curiosity woke up. "What is this monster?"  The room was alone in silence and all the eyes turned to me. My twin sisters, Sally and Sally, stopped their disputes over who obtained the last slicing of bread.  "Oh, only an old missing story," said Aunt Edna, stirring the hemiplegic hand disparagingly. But the way he avoided visual contact suggested that there was more. "A monster called belief," Uncle Larry began, lying in his chair, as usual, during the largest parts of the day of the day much of the night, with a petulant look. "Supposedly lives in a cave and eats anyone who tries to explore the island."  The laughs decreased, replaced by complicated silence. The only sound was the occasional tintineo of a fork against a dish and the distant buzzing of the dishwasher who in his agitation seemed an old truck whose engine pieces chrotized with uncontrolled agitation.  Mom looked around the table, her gaze landed in each of us. "But think about it, children. What happens if it's true? What happens if there is something worth seeing?"  Dad coughed, probably trying to contain his laugh. "Is it worth eating?" "Exactly!" Tim exclaimed, hitting the table. "We could be famous! Think of YouTube views!"  "Famous or not, I don't let you go," said Dad firmly.  "But dad," Tim complained. "It is probably just a myth."  "What if not?" Dad answered. "What happens if it's like Uncle Larry's cholesterol, hidden in sight and ready to jump?"  The room exploded again, the tension dissipated when Uncle Larry touched a napkin playfully. But when laughter calmed down, I couldn't help thinking about the monster called belief. Was it really a myth, or was there a real truth in history? And if it were real, what did it mean to those of us who still had so much to believe?  My parents, noticing my contemplative gaze, shared a look of knowledge. They knew that I had always had an inclination for the peculiar. "You can believe in that if you want," said my father, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "But remember, belief can be as dangerous as exciting."  Mom nodded, her eyes still dream. "But sometimes, it is emotion that makes life worth it."  The twins put their eyes in unison with the same look, while Sally and Sally shared a secret smile, clearly plotting something. Our grandparents, Nana and Pops, remained silent, their illegible expressions behind their thick glasses whose mounting had been crooked by inacostumblated posture caused by slight fading. They had always been the enigmas of the family, whispering stories of their own adventures that seemed too extravagant to be true.  The days became weeks, and the island's talk and his monster became quieter. But I could not shake the idea of ​​my mind. One night, after everyone went to bed, I got into the attic. The moisture aroma of the ancient books filled the air while leafing through a dusty chest, looking for any indication of a family secret that could shed light on the existence of the monster.  Among the yellowish newspapers and faded photographs, I found an old map, its frayed edges and its almost invisible ink. It was labeled 'The island of fantasy' with a raw drawing of a cave and the ominous words 'belief' scribbled in the corner. A chill ran through my column as I traced the island's contours.  The twins, after hearing the expression, sneaked behind me, looking on my shoulder. "What's that?" Tim whispered, his voice betrayed his emotion.  I turned to look at them, holding the map as a treasure. "I think it's a map for the island," I said, trying to keep my voice stable. "And it seems that it was drawn by one of our ancestors."  His eyes opened in par, and without word, we plot a plan. We went to the island ourselves and discovered if belief was more than a fire story. With a mixture of emotion and fear, we swore to keep it among us, knowing that if Dad learned, our adventure would end before it began.  The next morning, we woke up early, we packed some supplies and split in our mission, leaving a grade note at the kitchen table. The sun was just beginning to rise, throwing a spooky shine on the horizon. When we approached the dock, the silence of the early hour was broken only by the occasional squawk of a seagull and the rhythmic period of the waves against the shore. The boat that we borrow from Uncle Larry gently swing in the water, apparently anxious to be on the way. We entered carefully, trying not to wake the fishermen who had left their nets stacked on the dock. While we were pushing and the engine came true, I could not avoid asking me if we were about to discover something incredible or walk directly towards the jaws of the beast that awaited us on the island of fantasy.  Tim took the rudder, his face with a fake concentration mask while directeding us through the foggen waters. The twins, Sally and Sally, sat on the back, whispering conspiratorially and occasionally laughing, while I sat next to him, the map was placed in front of me. The sea was calm, almost too quiet, preparing something, as if it were lullably lullably for a false security feeling before the storm would surely arrive.  We had packed light: a flashlight, some snacks and a first aid kit. But it was the tacit hope that filled our backpacks to the edge. The hope that we will find something incredible, something that would make our lives feel less ordinary, less predictable.  As the island approached, the fog became thicker, wrapping around us like a shroud. The air became colder and the silence was drilled only by the occasional cry of an invisible bird. The island rose before us, an irregular silhouette against early morning light. The mouth of the cave yawn like a smile without teeth, calling us closer.  We step on the shore, the cold and humid sand under our feet. The beach was full of the remains of the dreams of the previous visitors: broken flip flops, forgotten glasses and wrinkled travel brochures that promised paradise but delivered something completely. We follow the map along the winding road, the vegetation that grows denser and more sinister with each step.  The entrance of the cave became bigger with each step, the darkness inside swallowing the light of our flashlight. "Are we really going to do this?" Tom asked, his voice a staggering echo in the vast space.  I looked at it, then to the twins, their faces have a mixture of emotion and fear. "We have come so far," I said, trying to sound safer than I felt. "We can't go back now." With a deep collective breathing, we venture in the belly of the beast, the humidity of the cave walls leaked in our clothes and the aroma of the earth and the salt water filling our nostrils. The air was full of anticipation, the echoes of our steps bouncing on the walls of the cave and towards the unknown.  We had not gone far when we listened to it: a low guttural growl that seemed to resonate the nucleus of the earth. The twins clung to each other, with very open eyes of terror. Tim's grip on the flashlight was squeezed until his knuckles were white.  "Maybe we should have listened to Uncle Larry," he murmured.  "Or maybe," I said, my quieter but equally determined voice, "we are about to prove that he is wrong."  The growl became stronger, the ground under us trembling. We appreciate our rhythm, our hearts accelerated over time with the steps of thunderous that seemed to follow us. The cave narrowed, the walls approached as the jaws of the monster we are looking for.  And then, just when we thought we could not go further, we saw it: a blink of light, a ray of something beyond our wildest imagination. The growl became weaker, replaced by the sound of hasty water. The air became warmer, and the smell of something sweet and intoxicating filled our nostrils.  We went to a camera that challenged the description, a place where the laws of reality had been bent and turned on a canvas of surreal beauty. The walls were made of crystal, rainbow melted by the floor and a waterfall from the roof, filling a pool that shone with a neon shine. In the center of the chamber was the monster belief throughout its glory. It was not the terrifying beast we had imagined; Rather, it was a creature of such an ethereal beauty that brought tears to our eyes. He looked at us with a knowledge smile, as if he had waited for us all the time.  The air tension dissipated, replaced by a feeling of astonishment. We approach cautiously, insecure what to expect. The monster spoke in a voice that was relaxing and dominant, his words echoed through the camera. "You have come to see what is beyond the veil of doubt. But be careful, because what you find may not be what you are looking for."  We look at each other, the severity of the words of the monster sinking. The bravery of the twins had faded, leaving only the four, trembling slightly in the presence of something so deeply strange and powerful. However, fear had given way to a new emotion, an emotion of how unknown it was much more powerful than any horror story. "What do you want from us?" I asked him, my voice was a simple whisper in the big space.  The monster, belief, laughed between teeth, the sound similar to the tintineo of the wind bells. "Just what you want to give me," he replied cryptically. "But remember, the price of wonder is often high."  We approach the bright pool, its surface is a mirror for our own reflexes. The water spread with each step, as anxious to share its secrets. Tim took the lead, immersing his hand in the water tentatively. He felt warm, almost cozy, and the light danced in his skin, painting it in colors that did not belong to our world.  One by one, we reach the pool. At the time our fingers touched the water, a vision was developed before each of us, a look at the depths of our own beliefs. For Tim, it was a world where his comic heroes wandered freely, his battles resonated in the streets of our quiet city. Tom was standing on the moon, the immensity of the space that extended before him as a silent sea and illuminated by the stars.  Sally and Sally's visions were more capricious: a land where animals spoke in riddles and trees had fruits that could answer any questions. And for me, it was a place where every story I had read was real, where I could enter the pages and live the adventures with which I only dreamed.  As the visions faded, we looked at each other, with very open eyes of astonishment. We had found what we had come: proof that belief could shape reality. But since the monster had warned, the price was high. With each vision, a piece of us remained in the pool, absorbed by water, leaving us slightly altered, changed forever by the power of our own convictions.  The twins looked at each other, their illegible expressions. Tim's hand hovered on the water, as if contemplating one more sauce. "We should go," I said, my firm voice despite the desire in my heart. "We have seen enough."  But before we could turn to go, 'Belief' spoke again. "You have tried the fruit of wonder, but there is more on this island than it seems. Stay if you dare, but know that the way back may not be as clear as the one that followed here."  The air got heavy with the weight of the decision. We had come to look for adventure, but what we had found was something much bigger and much more scary than any monster: the understanding that belief could create and destroy. As we return through the cave now familiar, the walls that approached us once again, we talked in Shouted tones about what we had seen. The twins were silent, their usual jokes silenced by the seriousness of our experience. The return boat ride was bleak, the engine drone contrasts with the silent astonishment that filled us. We return home, the sun now tall in the sky, and we found our parents waiting for us, their expressions a mixture of relief and curiosity. They did not ask where we had been, as if they already knew. We are not talking about the monster or the cave, the visions we had seen or the price we had paid.  Life resumed its normal rhythm, but we remained tormented by the island of the Flims, the whispers of our beliefs resonate today. The family dinner conversations became calmer, the less frequent laugh. We had brought more than a simple story; We had brought a piece of the monster itself.  And so, we live with the knowledge that belief could be both a gift and a curse, a bridge towards the impossible and a barrier to truth. The island remained a subject of silent whispers and knowledge looks, a shared secret that tied us in a way that could not. We had faced the monster together, and in doing so, we had learned the most important lesson of all: that sometimes, the most dangerous thing we can do is believe too much in ourselves.  The twins, Sally and Sally, became more introspective, their jokes and disputes replaced by a new curiosity about the world that surrounds them. They began to read, question, look for the answers to the riddles that only they understood. Tim and Tom, once so anxious for adventure, now found emotion in quiet moments, the mundane suddenly infused with the magic of the possibility.  As for me, the writer of this story, the island had unlocked something inside me, a door to a world where reality and imagination danced together in a delicate ballet. I wrote incessantly about our encounter with 'Belief', filling notebooks with stories of surreal landscapes and the whispers of forgotten beliefs. However, every time I put the pencil to the paper, I felt a stab of fear, a reminder of the power that now exercised. Our family gatherings acquired a new tone, our most significant conversations, our most nuanced debates. The absurdity of the existence of the monster became a metaphor for the absurdity of our own beliefs, the things we appreciate that no one else could understand. Uncle Larry's jokes lost their bite, and Aunta meat cake Edna knew a little less questionable.  But the deepest change was in our mother. His spirit of adventure had been tempered by a new respect for the mysteries of the world. I still watched the horizon with that same brightness in the eye, but now I was mixed with a quiet wisdom, knowing that sometimes the most wonderful things are the ones we carry with us, not those we find in distant lands.  The seasons passed, and the memory of our adventure is distant, such as the echoes that fader from the monster's voice. However, it remained part of us, a constant reminder of the power and danger of belief. And from time to time, when the moon was full and the night was still, we listened to a low and distant growl, a whisper from the island of fantasy that seemed to say: "Do you remember me?" And we would do it, with a chill and a smile, because we had danced with the monster and lived to tell the story.  One night, while the fireplace crepitated and launched flickering shadows on the walls of the living room, we gathered while Nana and Pops told us stories of their youth. They talked about strange lands and curious creatures, and for the first time, their stories did not seem so absurd. They had seen the world through the eyes of "belief", and the magic they had sought once they had found them.  The twins, Sally and Sally, approached, their shared secret is a link that even the most ingenious joke could even match. They whispered together, their heads bowed to dusty encyclopedias and tattered maps, plotting new adventures that did not require crossing the treacherous sea. They talked about hidden forests and forgotten cities, their imagination is a more powerful force than any monster.  Tim and Tom, on the other hand, became guardians of skepticism, their eyes always look for the truth behind the myth. They challenged each other and the world that surrounded them, testing the limits of what could and could not believe. They built gadgets and carried out experiments, their curiosity a lighthouse in the shadow of the cave that once had kept us all.  As for me, I wrote. I wrote about the monster and the island, the beauty and horror of the belief. I wrote about the family we had been and the people we had become. And with each word, I felt the presence of the monster, a soft push that reminded me to step carefully between the facts and fiction. The house was full of a new quiet, a peace that was occasionally perforated by the laughter of the twins or the noise of the last invention of Tim and Tom. Our parents saw us with a mixture of pride and caution, knowing that we had seen something they would never do.  And in the attic, where the map of the island of fantasy remained hidden, I sat for hours, the moisture aroma of the old books was a comfort while reflecting on the nature of belief. It was a force that had united us and a force that could tear us with the same ease. However, while we had ourselves, as long as we remembered the monster's smile, we were able to navigate the treacherous waters of our own convictions.  Because the monster called belief had taught us that the most incredible trip was not that of a distant island, but the one we took inside ourselves. And as we grew up, our beliefs evolved, formed by love and loss, for triumph and despair. We learned that sometimes the terrifying belief was the understanding that I could change, that the monsters we feared could become our most appreciated companions.  The map faded more with each passing year, the edges are curved like the pages of a very dear book. However, the memory of the island remained as vivid as the day we left, a reminder of the wonder and terror that lay beyond the horizon of our understanding. And so, we continue, our lives a reality of reality and imagination, woven by the invisible threads of belief.  As we grew up, so did the whispers of the island of fantasy. It became a legend in our small town, a past story of one generation to the next, the truth of our encounter stretching and transforming as the shadows into the walls of the cave. Some said we had conquered the monster, others that we had been consumed by him. But we knew the truth, and it was a secret that we protected fiercely, a link that had forged us more than simple brothers.  A summer, as the air was filled with aroma of flourishing flowers and the buzzing of lazy bees, the twins, Tim and Tom, decided that it was time to prove their new skepticism. They built a raft, more ambitious than the boat we had taken years ago, and sailed under the appearance of a fishing trip. The twins had never been separated for so long, and Sally and Sally saw them go with a mixture of admiration and anxiety.  The days they became weeks, and our laughter tensed while we waited for the news of his return. The silence of the house broke only for the ticking of the grandfather's clock and the occasional sigh of our mother, his eyes never left the horizon. Then, one night, just when the sun painted the sky with tones of pink and gold, the twins stumbled upon the door, their torn clothes and their faces full of adventure stories. They had not found 'belief', but they had discovered something much more valuable: the strength of doubt.  They talked about a land where the impossible was mundane, where the same air was full of aroma of contradictions. They had seen things that challenged the explanation and yet they had returned unharmed. The twins had learned that the true power of belief was not in the monsters he could convene, but in the questions he could silence. Their trip had taken them away from the security of our coast of belief.  While we listen to their stories, the weight of the monster's words made us heavier. The price of wonder was steep, in fact. But as long as we sat in the brightness of the west sun, I could not help feeling a sense of pride, amazed by the path they had chosen. In the end, it was not the monster we had to fear, but the belief in ourselves to conquer our own illusions.  Our family grew, our beliefs evolved, and the island of Flimsia remained a lighthouse in our collective memory. We often visit it in our dreams, our thoughts and our stories. And although we had left him behind, he had never really left us. Now it was a part of us, a reminder that the most terrifying and beautiful belief was his power to shape the world around us.  As we aged, the twins, Sally and Sally, became the guardians of the map, passing it to their own children with a warning and wink. And the house, once full of the echoes of our youth exuberance, was silent, filled with the whispers of a thousand incalculable stories.  In the end, the monster called 'belief' had not been a creature of the cave, but a reflection of our own hearts, a force that created and consumed our deepest desires. And while we sat in the twilight of our lives, surrounded by the laughter of our grandchildren, we knew that the most wonderful landscapes were not on any island, but within the unlimited kingdoms of our own imagination. What if they had eqivated from island?

By Carlos del Puente relatos 

"Why are we doing this?" He complained about Tim, his eyes will narrowed his eyes against the obvious neon lights of the convenience store. His mother, Janet, sighed strongly, his tight hand in the shopping cart.  "Because we are without milk, Tim," he said, his voice a mixture of tiredness and soft fun. "And your father needs it for your cereal tomorrow."  "But why tonight?" He persisted, his voice echoed on metal shelves full of canned products and snacks wrapped in plastic. "Couldn't I wait until morning?"  "Well, I could," Janet admitted, "but your father also forgot to buy it this afternoon. Now, help me find the milk."  Tim put his eyes blank, his squeaky sneakers on the polished linoleum while he was still behind his mother. The store was disturbingly calm, the only sounds of the distant buzzing of the refrigerators and the occasional ding of the sliding doors that open and close. It was a peculiar dance of normality in the strange world they had stumbled.  The halls extended forever, each one a mirror of the last, full of elements that seemed to change and turn in Tim's peripheral vision. He couldn't help feeling that they were sailing for a maze designed by a madman with an inclination for packaged foods. The air was full of plastic aroma and artificial aromatizers, a smell that seemed to cling to its clothes and hair.  While Janet was looking for the elusive milk gallon, Tim's gaze went to the wall of the caramel bars. Each one called it with a sugar and chocolate song of a siren that lived consecutively in each of the city's sources, promising a brief escape from the worldness of its night. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that dinner had been a disappointing issue of rancid and pickled sandwiches too much.  "Mom," he ventured, in a hopeful voice, "can we get some sweets?"  His answer was an "we will see" not compromised, that Tim knew that it was a code "not if you do not start helping me now." He sighed and directed his attention to the shelves, his eyes scanned the rows of dairy products. The world around him was a surreal tapestry of everyday and inexplicable objects. Imagination, milk cards float in the air like a flock of paper birds. Another shine from another world. to the corner store to which he was used to. Isole, sound is a marked contrast with the seriousness of the situation.  The cardboard stopped moving, floating at the height of the eyes. The lid opened and a single drop of perfect milk formed in the air before splashing on the floor. Tim's eyes put themselves wide. They were not alone in a convenience store; They were in the middle of a world where the mundane and the extraordinary coexisted, and tonight, they had found a revelation that was as simple as deep: being among the entities revealed was living in a world where nothing was really hidden. And he was about to get much more strange as his story was developed.  Tim observed how the content of the milk cardboard began to spill in a slow chamber waterfall, every drop that shone under the light of the store's neon. The drops became larger, merging from each other until they formed a white river that flowed through the halls under the surprised look of the ordered products. He looked at his mother, who had stopped in his search to observe the phenomenon with a bewildered expression. "Well, this is new," he said, his voice a mixture of surprise and renunciation. "It seems that we are getting more than we expect tonight."  Tim's brothers, the beautiful and Larry twins, who had been exploring the opposite hall, came running, their eyes light up curiously. They had felt the change in the atmosphere, the sudden drop in gravity that seemed to attract their souls.  "What is happening?" Linda asked, his voice dyed with emotion.  "I think milk is trying to tell us something," Larry offered, his eyes never left the river growing.  Tim's mother lifted an eyebrow in floating cardboard. "I guess we should listen."  The three children followed the river, the neon lights reflected the waves of milk, throwing strange shadows and dancing on the floor. The river became wider and more deep, its sound is now a soft bubbles when it began to flow around its ankles. It was like walking through a cloud, cold, wet and completely strange.  When they approached the rear of the store, the river became a pool, and a single intact cupcake sat on a small floating island made of wafers. The view of that caused Tim's stomach growing harder.  "What's that?" Whisper.  "It looks like the Holy Grail of the Spins," Larry joked, his hand has already reached it.  But before I could grab it, the lights flanged and the store began to tremble. The undulating milk pool and a face left its surface, looking at them with a mixture of anger and accusation. It was the face of a man, distorted by the liquid, his bulky eyes and his mouth in motion, but no sound came out.  "What do you want?" Janet asked, his constant voice despite the trembling in his hands. The face became bigger, the milk pool climbed until it was almost at its waist. The children clung to the car, with very open eyes of fear.  The mouth of the man moved again, and this time, they heard his words, echoing the store as a ghostly song. "You have disturbed the balance of the accounts of the cash register. You must go immediately."  The brothers exchanged nervous looks. This was definitely not in the script of his usual errands. But Janet, always the pragmatic, breathed deeply and took a step forward.  "We feel it," he said, his firm voice. "We are only looking for milk. We will leave as soon as we find it."  The face contorted, the milk stirring around it. "Find what you are looking for, but be careful with the cost," he warned before sinking into the pool.  The lights stabilized and the pool backed away, leaving only the floating cake as proof of the encounter. Janet grabbed a gallon of milk from the shelf and handed it to Tim.  "Come on," he said, his firm voice. "We have had enough adventure for one night."  As they rushed to the box, the twins whispered with enthusiasm what they had just seen. But Tim couldn't help feeling a sense of restlessness. They had stumbled upon a world of secrets, and if they liked it or not, they were now part of that.  The ATM, a woman with hair made of licorice, barely looked at them while paying for the milk and left. The sliding doors separated with a ding, and they went out at night, the surrealist world of the store vanished behind them.  "What was that?" Tim finally asked as they approached their car.  "I don't know," Janet replied, with a tight voice. "But it is clear that we are no longer in our world. And I am not sure that we were ever." The car, a sensible sedan, had become a giant metal snail, complete with a spiral housing and antennas made of bright sticks. Janet looked at him, blinking a lot to make sure he was not hallucinating due to lack of sleep. "Well, I guess we are walking home," he said, his voice tied with a humor that did not reach his eyes.  Tim and his brothers looked at Caracol's mobile, their agapes mouths. "This is great!" Larry exclaimed, already climbing the shell, his face lights with childhood joy. Linda did the same, her curiosity overcame her fear.  "Come on, mom," Tim urged, extending his hand. "We can't leave it that way."  Janet breathed deep and placed his hand on Tim's. "Well," he sighed, "but if your father asks, say that we decided to take the panoramic route."  When they got on the snail, he began to move alone, the antennas stirring in time with their laughs. The shell was surprisingly spacious, full of luxurious seats and a mini refrigerator equipped with their favorite drinks. The windshield was a giant eye, flashing occasionally to clear the condensation of the outside world.  The streets that knew so well had become a canvas for the surrealist. The trees bent at impossible angles, their leaves whispered secrets when they passed. The cars had become floating jellyfish, their lights flash as bioluminescent tentacles. Even the moon had put a couple of sunglasses, looking at them with a knowledge smile.  As they approached their neighborhood, the snail slowed down, the houses around them became increasingly transparent. Tim could see their neighbors go to their night routines, but they were all doing it in slow motion, as if they were trapped in a giant and strange snow balloon. His own house seemed normal from the outside, but when they crossed the door, they found themselves in a room where gravity had decided to take a break in their emptiness. Everything was attached to the ceiling, including furniture and cat, which now floated serenely on a sea of ​​cushions up.  "Welcome home," Janet said dryly, his feet floated awkwardly. "Let's take this milk to your father before the house decides to become a giant game of Jenga."  His father, George, sat at the kitchen table, with his head in his hands. He looked up upon entering, his expression a mixture of relief and confusion. "Thank God you have returned," he murmured. "I can't find my socks anywhere."  Tim looked at his own feet, realizing that he was also without socks. He shrugged. "It's a thing tonight, apparently."  They placed the milk on the table, which remained stubbornly attached to the roof. George extended his hand, his arm stretched like a silly putty, and the gallon rolled out of the air. "Well," he said, his voice full of resignation, "at least we have milk."  As the family settled in its new reality upside down, television went to life. They were local news, the presenter's mouth moved in silent and exaggerated movements. The subtitle at the bottom of the screen said: "Breaking news: the world as we know has turned."  Tim looked at his family, floating in the room of his own creation. "I guess we are not the only ones," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.  His mother nodded, his bright eyes with a strange mixture of emotion and fear. No, "she said. "But we could be the only ones who know what it means to be really 'revealed as the reels of the old photo cameras in a black abyx. "And with that, they all breathed deeply, ready to face what the surrealist world had reserved for them below. The gallon of milk hovered in the center of the kitchen, the lid unscathed with a lazy grace. The white liquid began To flow up, creating a waterfall that challenged all logic. same in this absurd universe. Mundano had become an astonishment? hook a bowl of the roof closet with a grace that challenged the lack of gravity. He held it under the flow of milk, filling it to the edge. "Well, at least breakfast is tidy," he joked, giving George.  Her husband took the bowl, her expression a mixture of bewilderment and renunciation. "I guess we should get used to this," he said, taking a tentative sip. The milk was cold and refreshing, the flavor unchanged by the strange turn of the events. "It could be worse," he reflected, "we could be out of coffee."  The room was silent for a moment, the only sound of spoons tinting against bowls while eating their floating cereal. Then, as if it were on the signal, the lights flicked again, and the TV, which had been playing an episode backwards of a kitchen program, changed to a news channel. The voice of Anchor, now audible, spoke of strange events worldwide. "People report floating objects, animals that speak and trees with fruits that shine in the dark," said the presenter, his voice a mixture of panic and astonishment. "Experts are baffled, calling it the most widespread and inexplicable phenomenon in registered history."  Tim felt his heart accelerating as he digested the news. This was not just his local convenience store or his neighborhood. The entire world had been turned on his head. The twins, still in pajamas, looked at each other with very open eyes, their spoons floated in the air. "This will be the best school day in history," Linda whispered, his voice full of joy.  His mother sighed, his feet returned to the ground while Gravity decided to play again. "We will see about that," he said, his voice full of a determination that seemed to cross the absurdity of everything. "The first thing is the first, let's prepare you two for school."  The children groaned in protest, but Janet was firm. "We can't let this change everything," he said, his eyes on Tim. "We need to maintain an appearance of normality."  Tim nodded, understanding that in the midst of chaos, they needed a routine to hold on. He swallowed the last of his cereal and took his bowl to the sink, the water rose to meet him while washing him.  While preparing for the day, the house continued to play with them. The socks slid like snakes, spitting paste of the tubes with their own mind, and the toothbrushes made a small template at the bathroom counter.  When they finally went to school, Caracol's mobile had become a giant rubber duck, chatting while sliding along the way. The neighbors looked astonished, their own vehicles frozen in the air. The courtyard of the school was a whirlwind of floating backpacks and children trying to play with balls that challenge gravity. The teachers looked as lost as the students, their forgotten lessons amid the wonder of a world that had gone crazy.  In the classroom, Tim took its seat, the chair wobbles as if it were made of jelly. The teacher, Mrs. Puddle, a lady with hair as octopus tentacles, wrote on the board with a chalk that leaned like a rubber duck. The words he wrote danced and twisted, creating a visual symphony that made no sense at all. Tim looked at his classmates, who were doing everything possible to act normally. Some were even scribbling notes, their eyes threw themselves nervously around the room as if waiting for the board to come alive at any time. But the words that Mrs. Puddle wrote remained stubbornly meaningless, turning in ways that resembled a Jackson Pollock paint than to alphabet.  "Class," he began, his tentacle hair greeting with each word, "today, we will learn about the properties of floating fruit." He lifted an orange, which cited in the air before her. "As you know, the world has changed, but education must continue."  The lesson was a drunk fruit flying through the air and the children laughing while trying to catch him with his teeth. Tim's mind wandered, thinking about the face in the milk pool and the world that challenges gravity outside. What did it mean to be revealed entities? Was there a reason for this sudden change in reality, or was it just a cosmic joke?  During recess, Tim sat under the shadow of a tree that now had branches made of licorice. The fruit had been replaced by girls who appeared with each touch, the occasional giggle resonated from those who had discovered the new games function. Larry and Linda were in the middle of an intense debate with their friends about whether the sky was now made of jelly or simply painted to resemble.  Tim could not help feeling a stab of envy because of his ability to accept the absurdity so easily. He was still dealing with the implications, his mind accelerating with the "what would happen if" and "why". Was there a hidden message in all this, or was it only chaos surprised by chance in its long common calm?  The bell rang, and the children returned to class, their laughs became a chattering cacophony when their rubber duck shoes hit the pavement. Tim felt a strange comfort in the rhythm, the absurdity of everything became almost comforting. As the day progressed, surrealism became exhausting, magic was used as a cheap costume at an endless party. The floating fruit had lost its charm, and the novelty of seeing its director, Mr. Whiskers, sliding down the halls in a cloud of shaving cream had become another part of the landscape.  When they got home, the house had been transformed once more. This time, it was a giant sandwich, with its furniture standing out as fillings. Janet looked at him and sighed. "Well," he said, "at least we will not go hungry."  The door opened, revealing his cat, now the size of a small elephant, resting on the couch. He looked at them with a boring expression that seemed to say: "What took you so long?"  The family entered, his heads brushed the roof of the bread, and found his father, George, in the kitchen, trying to prepare dinner. The ingredients floated around them in a chaotic ballet, the knives that made acrobatic feats that would jealous a circus.  "How was the school?" He asked, turning a pancake that hid in the air.  "Interesting," Tim replied, his eyes still very open. "We learned about floating fruit."  George nodded, his expression a mixture of pride and concern. "That's ... wonderful, Tim. But we have to discover what is happening. We can't live in a giant sandwich forever."  The words hung in the air, thick with the aroma of unreality. The family sat at the table, the plates stick to the roof, while contemplating their next movement in a world that had gone crazy.  The television returned to life, the news ticket now said: "President Trum declares that the national holidays for the adjustment of gravity." Janet put his eyes blank. "As if a day free will solve anything."  Tim looked at his brothers, who were already looking at the giant cat with ideas from a new pet. "Maybe," he said slowly, "we should try to talk to someone who knows what is happening."  The family exchanged the appearance, the seriousness of the situation finally sank. They had been living in a capricious dream landscape, but now the nightmare was knocking on their door, and they had to wake up.  And so, with a collective assent, they decided to embark on a search to unravel the mysteries of their revealed existence. Janet, always the pragmatic, suggested that they begin with someone who could have an idea of ​​what was happening: the old store, the old and the old Jenkins man. Known for his wild stories and even the wildest hair, it was said that he had the ability to communicate with the very tissue of reality itself. The house of the old Jenkins man was a walk through the glass. The sidewalks had become a tangled tapestry tangled in Italian tomato sauce, the lamps of the street flanged with the colors of a disco ball, and the mailboxes had grown teeth that broke the mail that passed and bit their hand I tried to take paper cards. The laughter of the children had given way to a cautious silence, with very open eyes of astonishment and a touch of fear.  When they arrived at their home, it rose before them as a castle of gingerbread made of discarded televisions, each screen blinked with scenes from their past. The door opened to reveal man himself, his beard made of cobwebs and his eyes shone with the light of a thousand distant stars.  "Ah, the revealed," he laughed, his voice as the whisper of autumn leaves. "I've been waiting for you."  He took them inside, where the floor was a bubbling jelly cauldron and the walls were full of floating book shelves entitled "The fantasy of gravity" and "the quantum mechanics of quarks and quarks". The room smelled slightly burned toast and smiling dreams under the sun of the long wait.  Tim's heart beat on his chest while taking his eyes to them. The old man sat in a chair made of tangled Christmas lights whose cables were plugged in the cargo device of electric cars, in that time, modern, stroking a cat that was a mixture of smoke and shadow. He leaned forward, his eyes were drilled in his same souls.  "Do you want to know the secret of the dissemination of world's lies?" He said, his voice a whisper that resonated in the room. "But be careful, since with great revelation comes a great responsibility and atrocious despair." The family exchanged looks, the stone weight of their words that settle in them as a feathers blanket. They had found themselves in a universe where the ordinary had become extraordinary, and now they had to navigate their unpredictable currents.  The old man told them a story of a world where secrets were a currency, and the act of revealing them could illuminate or destroy. He spoke of a moment when the veil between the mundane and the mystical became thin, and the whispers of the cosmos could be heard in the whisper of the leaves.  While talking, the TV screens on the walls darkened and the room became colder, the air full of anticipation. The brothers leaned down, his eyes very open with fascination when Janet's hand was squeezed on Tim's shoulder.  "Being among the revealed entities," concluded old Jenkins, "is walking a tightrope between the known and the unknowable. The balance is delicate and a false step could send the world in spiral to chaos."  Tim felt a tight knot in his stomach. "So what do we do?" He asked, his voice trembling.  The old man laughed between teeth, a sound like raging chalk against a blackboard. "You must find the guardian of the secrets," he said, stroking the gloomy cat. "Only they can restore the order of this kingdom of superior review."  "But who is the guardian?" Janet pressed, his voice full of urgency.  "The goalkeeper of the old arrows," said old Jenkins, his eyes shone from mischief, "he knows the question to which the answer is 'milk'."  Tim's mind accelerated, trying to assemble the puzzle that stirred alone at will inside the swarm of the synapses of the nerve cells of his brain. "But the milk's face warned us about the cost of disturbing balance," he said. "What happens if we can't solve this?"  "Ah," the old man nodded, his beard of anti -afflicts cobwebs swayed. "That's where the choice enters, Young Tim. Each dissemination brings a cost, but also a gift. It must decide whether the price is one that is willing to pay."  The room was silent, the only sound of the soft pop of a distant firecracker that echoed through the surreal landscape. The brothers looked at each other, their expressions a mixture of fear and determination. They had stumbled with a search that was as strange as important.  His father spoke, his firm voice. "We will do it," he said, putting his jaw. "We will find the Guardian and we will put the world again to rights."  The old man lay down in his chair, his eyes shone. "Very good," he said, breaking his fingers. "But remember, the way to the goalkeeper is full of danger. He will face evidence that will test his courage, his ingenuity and his own sanity."  The room became darker, and the TV screens became life again, each showing a different scene of chaos and astonishment. Tim could see a world that was terrifying and beautiful, a place where the laws of physics had changed to a rules written in invisible ink.  "We are ready," said Janet, his stable voice. "We will do whatever necessary."  With a smile that was at the same madness and wisdom, the old Jenkins man gave them a map made of sweet wrappers. "The first trial awaits you on the edge of the city," he said. "Follow the yellow brick path and take you to the goalkeeper."  The family was standing, with the staggering legs of the gelatin floor that challenges gravity. When they left, the cobblest street had become a yellow brick path, which extended on the horizon as a tape of hope in a world that went crazy. His first challenge came in the form of a giant chocolate river, the shores full of lollipop trees and a bridge made of licorice. Tim's stomach rumbled before his sight, but his mother's warning about the cost of temptation resonated in his mind.  "We must be careful that flowers have," he said, his eyes in the water. "We don't know what stalks under the sweet facade."  They approached the precautionary bridge or that of concern I don't know. The twins already licked their lips in advance. But when they stepped on the first board, he began stretching and wobbly, threatening to throw them into the river underneath.  "Stop!" George shouted, his hand shot to grab Larry's arm as he slipped. Tim and Linda clung to Janet's legs while she took tentative steps, the bridge groaning under her.  The cat, whose psychiatrist had been entered by some periods due to his manifest schizophrenia, gloomy of the old house he threw himself through the river, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. Tim's heart accelerated when he realized that he was guiding them, carrying them through the tests they advanced.  The trip was long and full of danger, every dance step with the absurd. They met speaking animals that spoke in riddles, a forest of living furniture and a storm made of rubber rubber that chopped as hail. However, with each challenge they faced, they approached, their strengthening ties such as the glue that maintained the united world in this new strange reality. Tim could not help feeling that this was more than a simple search for the guardian of the secrets; It was a trip to the very fabric of its existence. The world covered with sweets that surrounded them was tempting and treacherous, a mirror of the human condition in a kingdom where everything had been exposed.  The Red Mueliz bridge remained firm when they reached the other side, the Chocolate River is now a distant memory. The gloomy cat had disappeared again, letting them face the next challenge: a floating interrogation signs field. Each one turned in the air, whispering in a cacophony of unanswered consultations.  "What do you want?" Linda whispered, with very open eyes of amazement.  "I think they are trying to tell us something," Larry said, getting to play one.  When his finger contacted, the question sign moved away, only to be replaced by another question sign. Tim observed how the field became denser, the whispers became stronger.  "We are approaching," Janet murmured, his eyes on the horizon where he was driving the yellow brick path. "Keep advancing."  The next test came in the form of a peanut butter and giant jelly that talked about its path. He spoke with a damping and pampered voice of bread, asking them to respond a riddle that passes. The brothers looked at each other, their expressions a mixture of confusion and fun.  "What is the only thing you can never have too much?" The sandwich entered.  "Love?" Tim suggested.  "Water?" Linda offered.  The sandwich shook his head. "No," he said. "But you're on the right short path."  Larry broke his fingers. "I have it! Many and gelatin butter!"  The sandwich opened its layers to reveal a mouth full of teeth made of sugar crystals. He laughed between teeth, a sound like the crunch of a cookie. "Good attempt," he said. "But the answer is adventure. Now, I know in your path."  They went through the mouth now open of the sandwich, the bread closed behind them with a satisfactory crunch. The world became darker, yellow bricks that vanished to black.  Tim looked around, his heart accelerating. "What is happening?"  "It is the twilight zone," Janet said, his voice a mixture of amazement and fear. "We are entering the Guardian kingdom."  The final stretch of his trip took them through a desert of forgotten ideas, each grain of sand is a discarded thought. The brothers picked them up, examining the fleeting concepts with a mixture of amazement and sadness. The gloomy cat reappeared, his eyes shone in the dark, which led them to a giant door made of clips.  "This is," said George, his hand in the door knob. "The goalkeeper's camera".  They entered a room full of floating bottles, each containing a whispering secret. The air was full of ink aroma and the sound of one million stories not told. In the center of the room the goalkeeper sat, a being so enigmatic that Tim could not decide if he was made of shadows or the very essence of curiosity.  "Welcome," he said, his voice is a soft whisper of pages. "You have come to look for the balance. But remember, each secret has a price."  The goalkeeper extended a bottle full of letters and swirl numbers. "This is the answer to the question that brought you here. But once you know it, there is no turning back."  Tim looked at his mother, his eyes reflecting the same mixture of hope and fear that his heart filled. She nodded, her decision was made. "We are ready," he said. The goalkeeper handed her the bottle, and as Janet decorchad her, the whispers became a crescendo before dying to a single word: "milk."  The room grew still, the bottles settled around them as a quiet crowd waiting for the phrase. The goalkeeper leaned forward, his eyes locked themselves in Janet. "You have discovered the secret. But do you really understand its meaning?"  Tim felt a strange weight of his shoulders. It was so simple, so mundane and yet, so deep. The answer had been with them all the time, a part of their daily lives, hidden in sight.  "We do it," said Janet, his firm voice. "We know that the most precious things are often the most past."  The goalkeeper nodded, satisfied. "Then you must decide," he said. "Do you want to return to your world, leaving this back? Or stay and become guardians of the secrets?"  The brothers exchanged looks. The surrealist had become his reality, but the comfort of family members called them as a cradle song. They had to choose, and it was one that would shape their lives forever.  Tim looked around the room every piece of the walls, to the bottles full of whispers of the unknown, and felt a strange pull towards the adventure of staying. But then he thought of his cat, Mr. Whiskers, waiting for them at home with his agitated excessively balanced that he had the moment he seemed to go to turn completely, in the quiet comfort of his living room upside down.  "We want to go home," Tim finally said, his strong voice. "We want to share what we have learned."  The goalkeeper nodded. "That's right," he said, his shape vanishes as ink on wet paper.  The room shone and was reformed around. The clip door was put away, replaced by the comforting vision of its own main door. They went out to their world, without changes, but by their eyes, now open to the wonder that lay just below the surface.  His father looked around, baffled. "What happened?"  Janet gave him the empty bottle. "We found the answer," he said, a smile playing on his lips. "And it was exactly what we needed."  The brothers looked at each other, the severity of their adventure was finally established. They had been among the entities revealed, and now they were the ones who knew the secret. But instead of power, it brought them a deeper appreciation for magic in the ordinary.  The world around him slowly straightened, the fruit descending from the trees, the cars that recover their appropriate shapes. The cat returned to normal size, looking at them with a yawn as if everything had been a nap.  They walked back home, the yellow brick road now just a sidewalk full of regular trees. The television screens returned to their usual channels, the news ticket now said: "The gravity anomaly explained: the bewildered scientists." While they were sitting around the table, the gallon of milk now firmly at the counter, shared their story . He found skeptical looks and laughs, but Tim knew that the truth was there, hidden in view like the stars in a Daylit Sky. cereal bowl He knew their lives would never be the same. He picked up the spoons and cleared the table, the weight of his experience remained with them, a silent partner of his laughs and talks.  The next day, at school, Tim found himself looking at his textbook, the words that faded in a meaningless sea. Gravity and geography lessons seemed trivial compared to floating chairs and whispering trees. But he knew that this was his secret, a chest of the wonderful treasure that only they could unlock.  Linda and Larry, in their own classes, faced similar struggles. The mundane had become the exotic, and the exotic had become the mundane. However, while they whispered on their adventure under the appearance of sharing a secret joke, they felt a stronger kinship than anyone they have known.  The outside world had returned to normal, but the brothers saw him with new eyes. They knew that the surreal was just a beat away, hidden in the shadows of the ordinary. It was a secret that united them, a shared understanding that no one else could really understand.  But as the days passed, the brothers discovered that their new perspective brought their own challenges. The whispers of the revealed entities followed them as a shadow, a constant reminder of the surrealist world they had left behind. The laugh at the table became quieter, the least frequent stories, since the weight of his secret became heavier.  Tim tried to ignore the strange looks of his classmates, the way they whispered about the night the milks had disappeared. He focused on his school work, pushing the images of floating cereals and talking about animals to the back of his mind. However, every time I saw an interrogation sign, I felt a longing for the adventure they had.  One night, while they sat in the room to be seeing a show where the furniture came to life, Tim could not help asking himself if his trip had been a dream. "Is it real?" He asked his mother, his voice just above a whisper.  Janet looked at him, his expression full of understanding. "It's as real as you do," he said, his eyes on the screen. "Sometimes, the most important things are the ones we keep hidden, even of ourselves."  His words resonated with Tim, and realized that his experience had changed more than just his perception of the world. He had changed his family dynamics, his relationships and his essence. They had seen the invisible and knew the untouchables.  The brothers began to notice subtle changes in their reality. A sock that slid, a spoon that danced in the drawer, a cloud that looked suspiciously like the old Jenkins. It was as if the surreal was trying to push their way back, to remind them that the line between the known and the unknown was thinner than they thought. And so, they made a pact. They would keep their eyes open to the magic of the mundane, ready to jump into action if the world needs them again. They would protect the goalkeeper's secret with their lives, a silent promise so that the adventure was never over.  As they fell asleep that night, Tim felt a strange sense of comfort. The surreal was part of them now, a secret they carried in their hearts. And although the world had returned to normal, they knew that the extraordinary was always just a beat away, waiting for the moment they would be called to balance the balance once again.  The next morning, the brothers woke up to find their well -combined socks and their perfectly erect toothpaste tubes. The house had returned to the hug of gravity, but the whispers of the revealed entities remained, false echoes of their journey through the vessel. "Today is going to be weird," Linda murmured at breakfast, his spoon floating too much time on his cereal bowl.  Tim nodded, a smile playing in the corners of his lips. "But that's the point, right?"  His mother looked at them, his hot eyes with understanding. "You know," he said, "I think he would prefer a world with a little amazement in him."  And so, they faced the day with a new sense of unity, their steps slightly lighter while walking along the line between the real and the surrealist.  At school, the whispers became stronger, the shadows extend a little more. It was as if the universe itself was trying to whisper its secrets in their ears. Tim was attracted to the quiet corners of the library, where the books seemed to lean, eager to share their stories.  One afternoon, when the library cat pursued a floating paper plane, Tim tripped with an old and dusty volume entitled "The manual of revealed entities." He opened it with trembling hands, the pages joined as if they had not been touched in decades in decades . The text was written in a language that I could not understand, but the illustrations spoke a lot. They were images of his adventure, of the evidence they had faced and the secrets they had discovered. The courtyard of the school at lunch, passing the book between them as a sacred text. Who would believe us? "The twins looked at Tim, who kept the manual open to a page that shows the guardian of the secrets." We cannot tell them everything, "he said," but we can show you beauty in the strange. "And so, they decided to start a club, a society of the curious and the brave. The club grew, and with it, their understanding of the world that surrounds them. They learned to read the whispers of the revealed entities, to see the patterns in The chaos. They became Beacons of Wonder in a world that slowly forgot how to dream.  However, as the months passed and the whispers were weaker, the brothers began to realize that their adventure had changed them. They saw the world through a lens of possibility, where a trip to the convenience store could lead to a dance with the stars.  The manual became thinner with every secret they discovered, every mystery that unraveled. But his link remained strong, a testimony of the power of imagination and the magic of the mundane. And so, they grew up, carrying the whispers with them as a cradle song, a reminder that even in the most ordinary moments, there was always a track of the extraordinary wait for the corner.  For Tim, Linda and Larry, the world was a great place, a puzzle to resolve. And while they looked, the flash of the adventure in their eyes, knew that their trip had only begun.  The days became weeks, and the whispers became softer, the less frequent floating fruit. But the brothers never forgot the lesson they had learned. They saw the magic in the mundane, the stories in the shadows. They observed the world with an acute eye, waiting for the next track, the next secret that was revealed.  One day, as they walked home from school, they ran into a peculiar view: a group of ants that had small umbrella, parading under the color leaves of the rainbow of a tree. The twins looked at Tim, the emotion bubbling inside them as a bottle of soda soda. "We have to follow them," said Linda.  Tim nodded and followed the ants along the street, through the park and towards the forest. The ants took them to a clear, where a miniature town of twigs and leaves had emerged. In the center, a small stage was established with accessories that seemed suspiciously like Tim's missing action figures.  The brothers observed in amazement while the ants began to perform a play by launching their monitoring liquid to the public's OOS, the narrative entered and left reality as a silk thread on a torn fabric. It was a story of a world where revealed entities had once again lost their place, a world that needed balance.  When the work reached its climax, the ants looked up, like feeling their presence. The scenario grew, swollen until it was human size. The brothers put into account, becoming part of the story themselves.  The ants spoke in a language of clicks and whistles and clicks in their stomachs, but the brothers understood them. They had been chosen once again, to help restore the order of the kingdom of the forgotten. The whispers became stronger, the trees leaned down and the stars above waded him as old friends.  The brothers looked at each other, knowing what they had to do. They entered the role of guardians with the grace of experienced artists. They danced with the ants, whispered to the trees and sang the stars, their voices wove a harmony tapestry.  The people grew, the whispers became stronger, and soon, the clear was full of creatures of the world of what was revealed. They observed in amazement how the brothers worked together, their laughter resonated in the forest as the sweetest of the melodies.  And when the final curtain fell, the creatures disappeared, leaving only the memory of their brief encounter with the extraordinary. The brothers stood on stage, the leaves at their feet, feeling humble and empowered. They had found their place in the great scheme of things, not as heroes or saviors, but as custodians of the balance between surreal real. They knew that the whispers would call them again, and when they did, they would be ready.  As they walked home, the world had changed once again. The trees whispered secrets, the clouds painted the sky with their whims, and the pavement shone with hidden stories. However, the brothers felt more punished than ever. They had become part of the very tissue of their universe, the guardians of their wildest dreams.  His mother, Janet, watched them from the kitchen window, a smile of knowledge playing on his lips. He had seen the change in them, the way they moved around the world with a new sense of purpose. The milk was just the beginning, he thought. The real adventure was in everyday life.  The brothers sat around the table, sharing stories of their afternoon getaway. George listened, his eyes full of a mixture of pride and confusion. "You know," he said, "I have always said that life is strange. But you, children, take the cake."  And with that, everyone laughed, the sound filled the room as the warm hug of a lost friend a long time ago. They were the milks, the guardians of the secrets and the champions of the surrealist, and at that time, the world had a perfect and absurd sense.  The brothers continued to share their stories at the table, each one more ridiculous than the previous one. However, in the midst of laughter and stories of floating fruits and giant cats, there was a thread of something real, something deep. They had discovered beauty in the strange, order in chaos.  The television blinked in the background, the news playing in a murmur off. The presenters talked about strange events worldwide, but the family did not flinch. They had become the drivers of the symphony of the surrealist, the masters of the inexplicable.  As the days became weeks, the whispers became softer, the less frequent floating fruit. However, the brothers remained vigilant, their hearts open to the whispers of the world that surround them. They knew that the balance was fragile and that they had a role to play to maintain it.  One night, while they sat on the porch looking at the stars, a fleeting star crossed in the sky. They made a desire, their voices unions in the calm night. It was not for more adventures or for the whispers to return. It was that the force faced the unknown, to be ready for when the world called them again.  And when the star burned, leaving a stardust trail in its path, Tim felt a warmth in the chest. It was the warmth of knowing that they had a purpose, that their lives were part of a much larger tapestry.  The next day at school, Tim noticed something peculiar. The board, which once had been a canvas for meaningless words, now had a message in the perfect and clear writing: "Thank you." It was as if the universe himself had left them a small note of love, a wink to his role as guardians.  The brothers shared a smile of knowledge, a silent understanding between them. They had become part of the world's fabric, weaving their own peculiar brand of order in the tapestry of existence.  And so, their days passed, the eyes open to the magic that lay just below the surface. They knew that the whispers were still there, waiting for the moment they would be necessary once more. But until then, they appreciated the mundane, the absurd and the completely surrealist.  For Tim, Linda and Larry, the world was now a potential recreation patio, a place where the impossible was just a thought. And as they grew up, they carried the whispers with them, sharing their stories with those who listened, inspiring astonishment and astonishment in everything they knew.  His history became a legend, a whisper transmitted through the halls of his school and, finally, the city. They were the milks, the children who had danced with the stars and the domesticated gravity. And although the whispers fainted with each count, the essence remained: a reminder that reality was just a construction, and within each heart, there was room for a little magic.  The brothers grew up, each of them following their own paths, but always with a piece of the surrealist hidden safely inside their souls. Tim became a scientist, looking for the secrets of the universe. Linda, an artist, painted the whispers that he still listened in bright and rotating colors. Larry, the writer, wrote stories that folded the fabric of reality.  And Janet, his mother always seen, knew that his adventure had left an indelible brand in them, a gift from the guardian of the secrets. He observed how his children grew, every step took a wave in the pond of the possible.  The world had changed, and with him, they had also done so. However, the whispers remained, a soft reminder of the night that had entered the kingdom of the entities revealed and returned forever changed.  And in the quiet moments, when the world was still and the stars were out, they could still listen to the soft and comforting buzz of the universe, whispering their secrets to those who knew how to listen. Years passed and the brothers their bodies became adults, their lives intertwined with the threads of the real and the tissue of the surrealist. They had their own families, and told their children the history of starry milk and floating fruit, the house that challenges gravity and their search to restore balance. The whispers had become a family legend, a story of astonishment and responsibility that was transmitted through generations as a relic.  But the whispers fainted over time, the absurdities of the world vanished slowly in memory. However, from time to time, there would be a peculiar event, reminding them that their work was never really done. A bird that spoke in riddles, an rainbow in an unexpected place, a shadow that danced when nobody looked.  Tim, now a renowned scientist, studied the whispers from a new perspective, his laboratory is a sanctuary for those who dared to question the ordinary. Linda, his work of art exhibited in galleries around the world, painted scenes that danced on the edge of the imagination, inviting viewers to look at the world of invisible. Larry, an acclaimed author, wrote stories that folded his mind and tickles the soul, each page a gate to the kingdom of the reverse.  And Janet, always pragmatic, saw his family flourish in the embrace of the extraordinary. She knew that the whispers were part of them, a part of the magic they carried. He was in his DNA, a gift from his midnight adventure.  The brothers often gathered in the old family home, now a museum of their peculiar story. They would sit in the living room, their feet hanging from the ceiling and remembered their youthful getaways. They would laugh at the giant cat and floating socks, with their voices a warm hug that filled the room.  One of those nights, while sharing a bottle of wine that swayed in the air like a buoy in a sea of ​​nostalgia, the whispers became stronger. The room vibrated with a buzz that seemed to resonate in its own bones. The television returned to life, the screen now a swirl of cosmic colors.  And there, in the heart of the whirlwind, was the face of the milk pool, the guardian of the secrets, looking at them with an expression that was a smile and a challenge. He spoke in a language of light and shadow, the words weaving through the room as a snake.  The brothers looked at each other, the whispers are now a call from Clarín. They had been waiting for this moment, their hearts beat in advance. The universe needed them once again, to restore balance, to be among the revealed entities.  They stood up, their bodies felt lighter than the air, and entered the swirling screen. The whispers grew to a crescendo, and the room disappeared around them, leaving only the vast and rotating abyss of possibilities.  And when they ventured to the unknown, they knew that they were exactly where they were destined to be: in the middle of the entities revealed, their hearts open to the whispers of the cosmos, ready to dance with the stars once more.

By Carlos del Puente relatos