Kills and Kisses: The Last Mind Night

Cap 1: Murmuring Tragedies

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"In every shadow sleeps a heart that has renounced the day." — fragment attributed to a forgotten author.

The town of Haverford was covered by an uncomfortable calm, a silence that seemed audible even in the middle of conversations. The church bells stopped ringing earlier than usual, the dogs didn’t bark at dusk, and the townspeople—so accustomed to the murmuring wind—spoke in whispers about the family that had recently arrived at the Castle of Mists.

Since Lady Agatha Loraine died, daily life had become an echo of the past. No one remembered ever seeing her ill, not even tired. It was said she still climbed the highest tower to read her letters under the moon, or that she spent nights in the garden speaking with someone invisible.

It had been a death far too quiet, and the arrival of those unknown relatives made it even more unsettling.

At the market, among the vegetable stalls, women whispered behind the scales:

“They say they arrived at dawn, with three carriages. No one saw them enter.”

“Three men and a lady, right?”

“That’s what they say. All so pale… and none of them aged.”

The name Loraine was a respected but forgotten echo. Now, with the castle inhabited once more, the echo had turned into a living rumor, damp, carrying curiosity and fear in equal measure.
Daven, from the window of the café where he worked every afternoon, listened without intervening.

He had met Lady Agatha when he was a child. They had not been close, but she was kind: she offered him bread and tea on stormy afternoons, and spoke about books with a tone that always hid something. Her house was a labyrinth of clocks and curtains.

Sometimes, at night, when he passed by her gate, he thought he saw a light moving behind the windows, as if someone followed it.
The news of her death had surprised him as much as everyone else, but something in his chest refused to believe it was the end. Agatha had that kind of presence that felt eternal.

That night, while they ate dinner, his mother broke the silence.

“Poor Lady Agatha,” she said as she served the stew. “Always so alone, and yet so elegant.”

“They say she had family,” his sister added absentmindedly. “They came for the funeral.”

“Family?” asked Daven, pausing mid–spoonful. “She never spoke of them.”

“I didn’t know either,” his mother replied with a hint of sadness. “Maybe she wanted to keep them far. Not everyone is born to live with others.”
Daven didn’t respond.

Outside, the wind blew from the north, carrying a different, heavy air. That feeling followed him through the night, like a murmur in his mind. And at dawn, after teaching his classes at the primary school, he decided to visit the castle. Not out of curiosity, but out of respect.

The path was long and steep. As he walked away from town, the sky grew grayer and the air more humid. The leaves crunched beneath his shoes, and the scent of old earth and rotting wood floated around him.

The forest surrounding the property seemed to watch him, and the mist rising in soft spirals made it impossible to tell where the path ended and the trees began.

The gate appeared through the fog, tall and covered in ivy. The twisted iron bars had a design so ancient it seemed alive. As he leaned to push it, he heard the screech of metal and felt a chill run down his arm.

The air changed when he crossed the threshold. Inside the grounds, the wind stopped. The silence was absolute. He could hear the sound of his breathing and the echo of his footsteps on the damp stone. The castle stood imposing, its towers veiled by fog.