1860 The afternoon fell over the ancient courtyard of that estate, tinting the tombstone with golden hues as shadows slid slowly. There, on a mound of earth with a stone cross, a solitary widower, eyes clouded with grief, stood in front of a simple grave. His hands trembled as he caressed the cold stone, as if he could feel the presence of his beloved in that silent place. The wind whispered through the nearby trees, like a distant echo of the laughter that once filled his life. The widower clung to the memory of his beloved, like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a fragile piece of wood in the midst of a stormy ocean. "My dear..." he murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the twilight air. "I can still feel your presence in every corner of our home, in every song you used to hum while painting. How can I face the dawn without your bright eyes and warm smile?" His tears mingled with the rain that began to fall, as if the sky itself shared his sorrow. The tomb seemed to speak to him in silence, telling stories of a love that had endured even beyond death. The widower knelt as if seeking answers in the depths of the earth. "Why did life take you away so soon, leaving me alone in this cold world?" he sobbed, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces. "Sometimes I feel that the entire universe conspired to snatch you from my arms. What should I do now, without your laughter to brighten my days and your love to guide my nights?" Tears fell without restraint, blending with the rain that soaked his clothes. The widower closed his eyes, trying to find solace in the memories still lingering in his mind, but each memory was like a dagger in his heart, reminding him of what he had lost. The night closed slowly around him, enveloping him in a deep and eternal darkness. He remained there, in the shadows, clinging to a love he could no longer touch, bidding farewell once again to the woman who had once been his world. The tragedy of his loss resonated in every sigh of the wind and in every tear that fell on the damp earth, as the widower said goodbye once more to his beloved, in a farewell that seemed to have no end. Why? Why must a man endure this harsh ordeal? Who is this man? His name is Pseudon. And to understand him, we must recount the grains of sand in this hourglass. A human child, dressed in clean clothes, swung alone while his eyes could innocently witness those dinosaurs whose horns were halved horizontally to prevent sharpness that could easily incite revolts against those who give orders. They were forced to work under the shadow of the whip, while their soft skin was under the shade of the tree. "Pseudon!" someone called the attention of the child, a woman identical to the non-voluntary workers, a sunflower-colored triceratops of about 30 years old. "You have to do your chores before your father finds out!" she gave him orders in sign language with her hands. "I'm coming, Mrs. Carrote!" said the child, in his natal decade of life. Like a commercial ship, he anchored his legs in the ground, stopping the hammock. Pseudon trotted with innocence toward Mrs. Carrote, the housekeeper of the Mous, and once by her side, with quick hand movements, he cleared the dirt from the child's clothes. "Please, Young Mous, take care of your clothes. I washed them all day yesterday," she said as she finished clearing the dirt, watching as her young master walked briskly into his home, going upstairs with the unconditioned energy of a child. He came down with the same energy, carrying two books and pencils, excited to acquire more knowledge that, for the scholars of the time, was the most basic. Tick-tock. Time passed, and the sun was a few hours from setting, but that didn't stop Pseudon from barely finishing his studies and going out the door, only to notice that there were more triceratops in the cotton plantation than usual. This prompted him to go quickly to Mrs. Carrote, who was in the kitchen organizing a few things. "Miss Carrote!" the boy said, excited about his discovery, trying to get the housekeeper's attention with hand gestures. "What happened, young Mous?" she asked in her maternal tone as the lady of that time, finding tenderness in his excitement. "There are more triceratops working. Does Dad know that more were brought in?" he asked in turn, pointing to the cotton field, which could be seen through a window. Mrs. Carrote just sighed, her eyes laden with sorrow, knowing that they were of their own kind suffering the eternal cycle of slavery. "Yes, young Mous. They are the new slaves your father bought. I still miss those four, their attempt to rebel cost them dearly... I hope the new ones don't fall into barbarism," she said, recalling something painful. Pseudon looked at her, tilting his head, "Uhhh, Dad told me they disappeared into the earth." "Uhhh... damn," Mrs. Carrote muttered under her breath, whispering to the wind. "Just don't tell your father anything about this, okay? Now go and play or do something," she said, returning to her tasks. The soft skin returned to the outside, to his hammock as usual. In the distance, he could see a boy of Pseudon's age carrying a large basket of cotton, but unlike the soft skin, he was born under the cruelty of slavery, without friends his age. As soon as he realized who he was, he stopped abruptly, processing what he saw in the distance. That boy didn't notice the soft skin; Pseudon couldn't help but get excited at the thought that finally, a soul of his age was walking on his estate. Ignoring the warnings that he should not interrupt the slaves under any circumstances, he went to the cabin where the forced laborers served a master, peeking through the windows, looking for the young boy. Nothing. He moved to the next window, which was for the rooms. Fortunately, the one he was looking for was alone. Pseudon tapped the window a bit, catching the attention of the young slave. Pseudon introduced himself with a gentle curve of his lips and a friendly sparkle in his eyes. This disconcerted the triceratops, making him approach the window cautiously, engaging in an involuntary staring contest. Pseudon was the first to speak, excited to finally have someone his age to share most of his days with. "Hello! I'm Pseudon... I've never seen a triceratops your age," his eyes analyzed the boy from head to toe with innocence. "Aren't you too young to be working?" he asked, toning his words without, knowing that slavery has no age. The young triceratops played with his magma-colored fingers, not knowing the answer. He only knew that dinosaurs like him had to work, with a certain innocence in his eyes. He approached the window more, resting his hands on the window frame. "I don't know what you mean by being too young... they introduced me like this to a gentleman like you. Aren't you his son?" he said, pointing to the respective places of the elegant clothing. "A gentleman who wears a black hat and suit accompanied by a red bow tie?" pointing to the corresponding places of the elegant clothing. "Yes..." "Yes, that's my father. Did he buy you?" Pseudon asked, raising an eyebrow curiously. "Yes, he did. Why are you here?" the young slave questioned. "To invite you to play tomorrow if they let you," Pseudon answered with a smile, adding another question, trying to remember if he had a name. After a few seconds, he remembered. "What's your name?" "Me? My name is Laver, Mr. Mous," he said, remembering the nickname given to him by one of his French slavers, finding it amusing because his scales resembled lava. Then he processed the first question Pseudon threw at him. Play with a soft skin? Was that allowed? He didn't know, although the idea didn't seem so far-fetched, just curious. "Pseudon, my name is Pseudon," he said, shaking hands with him, but still unsatisfied with the lack of an answer to the first question. "And about playing..." "I don't know... I never played with a human... Only with the other two of mine where I come from," he said, remembering when he used to play with the little time they gave him each day to rest. "Don't worry, I'll see how we can arrange that, Laver," Pseudon clarified with a smile. And that's how they said goodbye with the promise that the next day they would play for a while. Pseudon that night fell asleep excited to finally have someone to share most of his days with. The next day, you could see Pseudon wandering around the estate, looking for something mischievous in the playful corner of his soul. A smile danced like a minstrel in the dim light, whispers of mischief swirled on his curved lips. He noticed a slight movement in some bushes and approached stealthily, catching someone. "Aha, I got you!" He seemed happy, and Laver came out of the bush, apparently having lost in what was a game. But it didn't take long for him to release a harmless giggle, looking at Pseudon as an equal. "You'll see that when I learn how this place works, no one will find me," he said confidently, his eyes shining with a mix of excitement and determination. The moment between friends was interrupted by an authoritative female voice. "Pseudon Y. Mous, you have 5 minutes to come back!" It echoed from the house, worthy of the owner of that estate. Upon realizing Pseudon, Mrs. Carrote appeared to be surprised but annoyed at the same time. "And tell that boy to come back before the overseer finds out!" Pseudon looked at his friend, who sighed somewhat dejectedly. "See you later, friend," he said with a smile before walking towards his house, leaving behind the lava-colored triceratops, who was surprised at how the human treated him as a "friend" and not as a "thing." That made him smile in a somewhat melancholic way, and he began to trot lightly towards his non-voluntary work. The young Mous entered his house, being greeted by Mrs. Carrote, who was organizing the house as she usually did. Upon realizing the boy, she stopped to look at him. "Young Mous, your father is waiting for you in his office," she said as she resumed her work. Pseudon swallowed nervously before going upstairs to the door where his old man's office was. Crossing the threshold, an adult, serious, and emotionless voice asked, "Who is it?" The voice resonated in the room, full of authority and accumulated experience over the years. "It's me, father," Pseudon replied, his voice trembling but determined. He heard a grumbling of approval from inside the room, and with determination, he entered the office. His father's office was impregnated with the smell of old wood and freshly written ink. Shelves filled with books and scattered papers created an atmosphere of intellect and seriousness. Pseudon's father, an older man with a furrowed brow and a stern look, sat behind an imposing oak desk. "What are you doing playing with the slaves, Mous?" his father asked with a tone that indicated disapproval, staring at his son. Pseudon swallowed nervously before answering, feeling the weight of his father's gaze on him. "I was just playing, father. I don't see why I can't spend time with them," Mous replied, trying to sound confident despite the discomfort in his chest. His father sighed deeply, clearly displeased with his son's response. "The slaves are not equal to us, Mous. They are property, nothing more than tools to work and serve. You shouldn't mingle with them in that way. It's inappropriate and not suitable for someone of our social standing," his father said firmly, his voice echoing in the room. Mous lowered his gaze, feeling ashamed and confused. He didn't understand why his father saw the slaves that way, as if they were less than the rest of society. Despite his father's words, Mous had shared a few genuine moments with the slaves, had felt empathy for them, and had learned to see beyond the chains that bound them. "But father, they are also people; they have feelings and dreams. I don't understand why we can't treat them with respect and dignity," Mous said, challenging his father's opinion even though he feared the consequences. His father furrowed his brow even more, clearly annoyed by his son's rebellion. "You are young, and you don't understand the real world yet. When you grow up, you will understand why things are the way they are. For now, you must understand that they are mere tools without reasoning. They are not equal to us. Now get out of here; your mother is still sick, and I don't want to be in a bad mood. Besides, she wanted to see you," his father said, making it clear that there was no room for discussion. Mous nodded, feeling defeated, but deep down, he knew he couldn't blindly accept his father's beliefs. With nothing better to do, he followed his father's instructions and went to see his mother, who unknowingly would be in her last weeks on this plane... In the corner of time, three turns danced, three times the sun embraced the horizon. Three seasons departed with their splendor, and the wind carried away its whisper of love. Three years, like celestial dancing leaves, weaving stories in the tapestry of the universe, endless. In the clock of the sky, a cycle completed, and in the hearts, memories planted. Three times the echo of the past resonated, three years of joys, tears, they took away. In the river of time, a brief eternity, where yesterday fades away and tomorrow dares. A stifling afternoon arrived at the Mous family plantation, the sun sinking on the horizon, painting the sky with golden and reddish hues. Inside Pseudon's house, the 13-year-old was in his room, surrounded by books and scrolls. He studied diligently, striving to meet his father's expectations, a man tormented by personal demons. Pseudon's father, grappling with alcohol addiction, had suffered a relapse. Bloodshot eyes and an alcoholic breath were evidence of his wretched state. Irritated by the gossip that had arisen the day before, when some guests had secretly commented that the family was strange for allowing Pseudon to associate with Laver, a slave of the same age, the father was filled with rage. Pseudon heard his father's heavy footsteps approaching his room. The young boy felt a knot in his stomach, knowing that confrontation was imminent. The family's reputation was at stake, and his father was determined to restore it at any cost. The door slammed open, and Pseudon's father burst into the room with fury in his eyes. "You damned boy! Do you think you can dishonor our family this way?" he shouted, the scent of alcohol permeating the air. Pseudon tried to defend himself, but words stuck in his throat. He knew his relationship with Laver had caused a scandal, but he couldn't accept what his father was asking of him. His father's anger knew no bounds. Driven by fury and shame, Pseudon's father left the room, leaving Pseudon in his studies, and headed to the cotton plantation. There, with a whip and rope in hand, he took the young magma-colored Triceratops and tied him to a tree. The other slaves were allowed to watch by the overseer; Mr. Mous tied the condemned to a tree, who could do nothing but shake, trying to save himself in some way. When everything was ready, Mous looked at the Triceratops. "You won't stain our name any longer, savage!" he exclaimed, taking a few steps back. Pseudon noticed the shouts and rushed towards the crowd, but an overseer restrained him, immobilizing him, while the second one pulled out his revolver, making it clear that no one should attempt anything stupid. Pseudon, resilient like the triceratops his father aimed to harm, writhed and kicked in a desperate attempt to free himself and prevent his friend from enduring the cruel litigation. Each blow delivered by his progenitor resonated within him, a symphony of pain that intensified with every piercing word. Laver, brave but defenseless, sought to escape the brutal dance of accusations enveloping him. His once vigorous body became a target for his father's fury. Every attempt at resistance was met with more forceful blows, like furious waves crashing against a cliff. Pseudon, struggling against tears that threatened to escape, clung to the hope that his torment would come to an end. The other overseer, who held the revolver, an impassive executor of his master's will, encouraged the physical punishment with motivating words. Blow after blow, without mercy or respite, they pummeled the defenseless Triceratops-colored Laver. Each impact echoed like thunder in the shadow of injustice, and the triceratops, a silent witness, seemed to gaze with sorrowful eyes upon his friend's misfortune. Laver's face, marked by the harshness of the blows, no longer reflected the youth he once had. The clarity in his eyes clouded with daze and despair. Every open wound bore witness to the brutality inflicted by those he had always addressed as "sir" or "master." Thirty minutes that seemed like an eternity. Laver's body, now bloody and battered, could endure no more. Physical torture merged with emotional punishment, forming a vortex of suffering that threatened to engulf all light and hope. When it seemed the torment had reached its zenith, Mr. Mous, regaining strength from a dark source, continued his litigation. His voice, laden with venom, resonated like a chilling lament. Pseudon, unable to do much now, almost immobilized by fatigue and blood loss, helplessly witnessed as that magma slowly solidified into stone, encapsulating him in a sea of despair and pain. Mous turned around; his slaves were astonished, Pseudon shattered, tears running down his cheeks as he witnessed that scene. "Go back to your damn work if you don't want to be next!" The slaves could do nothing but obey orders. The only one who wasn't there was Carrote, who observed everything from a window, shocked and feeling mournful for the deceased young one who couldn't relate much but made Pseudon's solitude more bearable, even after his mother's death. The father returned home, while Pseudon finally could approach his friend's corpse, untying him with the hope that he might still be alive. He shook him a bit, calling him by his name, but there was no response. When the soft skin finally realized that his friend had already left this world, he could do nothing more than burst into tears, burying his face in the chest of the deceased dino. The sun had completely set, but the darkness that loomed over the plantation was deeper than the night itself. Pseudon and Laver's destinies were entwined in a tragic and somber way, and the family's reputation hung by a thread, tainted by the violence that had erupted in that dark corner of the cotton plantation. Two years have passed, two times that planet Earth has completed its orbit around the unknown solar system for intelligent species... Under the timid glow of the setting sun, Pseudon stood in front of his friend's old grave, a grave that could only be marked by a wooden cross as a sign of respect. He couldn't provide a dignified burial for someone as important as Laver. With his head bowed in respect, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the echoes of the past and the memory of better times. Nostalgia filled his eyes as he recalled the days of his childhood when he and his friend shared laughter and dreams under the same sky that now observed them in silence. On that day, a human man visited with two daughters for the indigofera season, a plant they cultivated. One of them was Fatima, a young girl whose hair was a river of blood, dressed elegantly for the time. Fatima, on the other hand, strolled through the peaceful cemetery, absorbed in her own thoughts. Her light steps resonated on the earthy ground as she wandered among the graves, each telling a silent and forgotten story. It was then that her eyes met those of Pseudon, who was still immersed in his heartfelt reverence for his lost friend. Intrigued by the sadness reflected in the young man's eyes, Fatima approached carefully. "Excuse me," she said softly, her voice resonating in the quiet cemetery. "Why are you so lonely?" A bit closer to Pseudon, she could see that he was expressing nostalgic sadness, remembering a tragedy. "Hey... are you okay?" Pseudon was surprised to hear the kind voice of a stranger, but something in her sincere tone made him lower his gaze and smile with nostalgia. "Thank you for your kindness, but yes, I'm fine. I'm just visiting the grave of a friend lost two years ago." Fatima noticed that the grave had no name. "Who was he not to have his own grave?" she asked innocently, unaware of whom they were talking about. Pseudon realized this, letting out a sigh at the delicate situation. "He was a slave... but we were children, we didn't know the difference between us." Fatima just looked away; she couldn't understand why someone like him would associate with a slave, but she wouldn't judge, offering support with her silence. "Um... How about taking a walk?" she said with a friendly smile, trying to cheer up the young man. Her nature of encouraging others didn't allow her to leave this stranger in his sorrow. Pseudon looked into her amethyst eyes, surprised by the girl's suggestion. First, he scratched his bald head a bit, then looked around while stammering a response. "Uh... sure, I'm Pseudon, by the way...," he glanced down slightly, trying to remember the name of the gentleman they said would come today. "I was told that Mr. Boon would come here, but I thought he would come alone." She chuckled as they began to walk around the hacienda. "Yes, Dad says we have to find a husband and all that, although my older sister is already married," she giggled, a laugh that Pseudon found endearing. Years passed. He swore eternal love to her, amidst whispers and caresses, She responded with smiles, full of sweetness and delight. Their hearts intertwined, like in a fairy tale, Together, they defied the shadows in their love story. The fields flourished in their wake, silent witnesses to their love, As they explored pathways beneath the sky's azure brilliance. In every whispered word, in every gesture and gaze, Lay the essence of a passion never forgotten. Oh, nineteenth-century young lovers, Your story endures, like a cherished treasure. In the pages of time, your poem is engraved, An eternal love, forever immortalized. The sun had just awakened in the year 1859, a gentle breeze rustled the fields, and it was time for work in that southern state. A dark orange ankylosaur was counting the number of triceratops present in their work, all in a row, making the counting easier with an unmistakable Spanish accent — Siete, ocho ... Alright, they're all here if we don't count the elderly one— with everything ready, he gave the signal, and the harvested horns began their workday, calm, while he and his companion patrolled around the cotton crops, making sure none of them slacked off, using their gaze to signal that they were being watched because this plantation wanted to keep its whips unused. Once the overseer completed his rounds a couple of times, he glanced at his boss's house and caught him right on time. A human man, tall, in black pants, a white shirt with a leather vest over it, a well-polished bald head like the rest of his lineage, accompanied by a gray beret, emerged and sat on a wooden chair placed on the porch of his house with a novel in hand. To his left, there was another chair, and in front, a small table. After a few minutes, a lady of the same species as her husband came out, dressed in a brown dress that reached her ankles, slightly shorter than her partner, with hair the color of a torch lit in a dark cave. She had two coffee cups in both white hands, placing those brown drinks on the small table before sitting down. "You took less time than expected, Mrs. Carrote," said the man, putting down the bundle of sheets full of words to take the porcelain piece. His tone was that of a well-educated man, but it showed affection towards his partner, who was by his side. "Yes, she said she took advantage of not having anything else to do, I don't know what for, to prepare coffee for us beforehand, quite rebellious of her, but I'm not complaining," she said as she also took that cup and sent a silent sip with her soul filled with positive energy and eagerness to propose something. When her lips were about to speak, another voice intervened, a voice with English that indicated he was not from their country. "Boss," it was that orange overseer, his tone was like that of an employee close to retiring, watching his boss go by. "Everything's fine with your slaves, none are sick or in bad condition." He pointed to the cotton crops. Pseudon didn't like the term "your slaves"; for him, they were just poor souls who had the misfortune of being born at the lowest rung of society, a necessary evil for survival. "Well, that happens when you feed them well. I don't give them any second-hand rubbish, Carlos," he said, raising his shoulders slightly. His wife, Fatima, just observed with furrowed brows, showing tension in her eyebrows. "Anyway, thank you for letting me know. How is the new overseer doing? He still hasn't gotten used to the new work style. I see he has his hand on his belt, but as I told you when you brought him here, 'one lash, and he's out.'" Pseudon's eyebrows were slightly furrowed, pressing his lips a bit, and his tone was that of someone who held his position on the estate on his own merits rather than by mere inheritance. "Sure, Mr. Mous, that's what I always remind the man of. He still hasn't gotten used to how you treat his slaves. I see he still has his hand on his belt, but, as I told him, 'one lash, and he's out,'" the overseer said as he turned around and walked back to his work. Pseudon took a sip of his coffee when a call to his name arose, a call that sought the bald man's eyes, finding his amethyst-eyed wife's eyes, which maintained a slightly annoyed look. "What happened, my love?" The fire in her eyes calmed as she returned to her state of purity, giving her husband a warm smile. "Oh, well, I was thinking about..." her cheeks turned like a sea bean. "You know, having a child, I want to try again." This prompted Pseudon to open his eyes wide, although it wasn't the first time they went through this conversation. "You know I would love that. After all, it's something I want too," he said, leaving his coffee on the table and resting his forehead against his wife's, both closing their eyes, both gaining that shade of embarrassment on their cheeks. "Pseudon. Thank you," she said as they separated, then took another sip of her coffee. "I hope Jesus-raptor is with us on this," he said as he took a few more sips of his drink, leaving it on the table. His wife also emptied the liquid from her porcelain cup, noticing that, she took it without saying anything and carried it inside. 33 days had passed since that conversation. Pseudon was in his office, reviewing expenses and estate needs with some papers in hand. Someone knocked on the door. "Mr. Mous," could be heard through the door; there was no doubt it was Carrote. Pseudon set aside his work and, with a tone not too authoritative, said, "Come in." She entered, a triceratops that clearly was a veteran on the estate, though she maintained the character she had when she was the nanny of who is now her "master." "It's about Fatima, isn't it?" Pseudon's tone expressed concern. "Yes, my lord, she still has moments of nausea," she said as she stood in front of the desk, like an employee when their boss calls them for an important matter. Pseudon couldn't help but draw a small smile on his face. "Let's hope it's what I really think," he said as he got up from his seat to leave his office with his servant and go to his room. Upon arriving, he opened the door, revealing a well-decorated room for the time. However, something stood out—a handmade painting in front of the bed, depicting the two lovers. His wife lay on the bed, with one hand resting gently on her stomach, accompanied by a soft smile on her lips. Pseudon approached and knelt gently to be at the height of his wife. "Pseudon," her happiness was genuine as she watched her husband approach. "I think we did it." When she uttered those words, the man couldn't contain his happiness, evident on his face, and he gave his wife a gentle kiss on the lips, to which she responded with joy. "You always make me the happiest man," he sighed, accompanied by a smile, restraining the desire to hug, kiss, and cling to his life companion. "We'll have to buy a crib, clothes, toys..." his list of things for the baby was interrupted by his wife's voice, the mother of his child. "And someone to take care of it..." This froze Pseudon a bit. When he thawed, he blinked a couple of times, looking at Fatima, who, upon seeing how her husband reacted to her comment, became somewhat puzzled. "I meant a slave or someone. I can't take care of a child all day." With a hint of annoyance etched in his eyebrows, Pseudon wanted to protest, but when he opened his lips, he remembered that his wife rarely asks for anything. Closing his lips, he sighed in defeat. "Alright, but promise me you won't forget about the child." His eyebrows curved in a barely perceptible gesture, the wrinkle between them barely noticeable. Buying a slave was not his favorite activity, but if it could bring another condemned soul to his quarters, then so be it. "Okay, my love!" She gave him a sweet smile while still gently caressing her belly a bit. "Can you write a letter to a friend of our family? He can reserve a young slave for us when we need to go." "Why young?" raised an eyebrow that husband and future father. "Well... you know, the housekeeper is..." she knew her husband didn't like her being vulgar with what she considered 'wild beings' that, according to him, had feelings even though she never understood that reasoning. "Rusty, and at any moment, you know," her smile accompanied by a nervous giggle didn't take long to appear. "You're right, Carrote may be old, but she doesn't deserve to be replaced just like that," he complained with a slight annoyance while Fatima rolled her eyes at her husband's scolding. He just sighed, knowing how his wife was with the slaves, giving her a kiss on the cheek, trying to lift her mood with a tender smile. "I have to get back to work, love. You rest, and we'll write the letter tonight." He left whistling a tune due to happiness. In a dark corner of the slave market, where the sun barely dared to penetrate, stood the slave trader, a dark green Stego, robust with a friendly smile that concealed a sinister being. He wore luxurious clothes that violently contrasted with the misery that surrounded him. His eyes meticulously scrutinized the female slaves lined up, all dressed in deplorable conditions. "Let's see," he said, pulling out a letter from one of his pockets, reading with the corner of his eye the prominent letter from the Mous detailing their needs, a young slave with the ability to care for a human child, very vaguely specified to his criteria. He simply tucked the letter away as he fixed his gaze on the line of slaves. "Okay, jeunes filles," they all looked at him when they noticed his cheerful tone. "You, you, and you, back to your cells," he said with a smile, enjoying this game of elimination. "Now... who here has cared for un élevage?" Only a couple raised their hands. "Those who haven't, back to your cells," he said as the line of slaves dwindled, taking steps forward to inspect the remaining few slaves. "How many have given birth in the last... trois mois?" Only one triceratops, a beetroot-colored one, slowly raised her hand, a bit shorter than usual for her species, with curly and poorly-maintained hair, horns cut halfway horizontally, a bust capable of comfortably breastfeeding a child, a body begging for proper nutrition, and eyes filled with sadness. Her name, she didn't have one; she was only listed with her former owner's last name. Her name was Lettuce, and although her appearance was marked by slavery, she still had a faint spark in her gaze. The slave trader walked slowly along the row of six women, examining each of them as if they were objects in a store. His gloved fingers brushed the faces of the slaves as he evaluated his only option, stroking his chin. Lettuce kept her head low, trying to hide her gaze, but her eyes revealed a mix of uncertainty and a faint hope. Finally, the slave trader examined her carefully, as if assessing merchandise. His eyes traveled over her skin, hair, and hands, as if searching for any defect that could affect his deal with his "special client." Lettuce swallowed hard, but her gaze remained firm, breaking eye contact barbarically as soon as she could. "This one will be l'élue," the slave trader said, as a child finding the right ball to play with, looking at Lettuce. "Her beauty and youth will make her highly appreciated for our client." His words resonated like a cruel verdict, sealing the fate of the chosen slave. Lettuce's heart pounded as she was separated from the group and taken to prepare for the delivery, which would be in a few weeks. "I hope that Mr. and Mrs. Mous will appreciate my choice." Weeks had passed since the French slaver's selection. Mr. and Mrs. Mous had to visit the slaver's property, a vast land with several grape plantations, which seemed to be a good contact for Fatima's family. Upon arriving in their carriage, driven by one of their older but experienced triceratops slaves, they were greeted by the dark green stego enthusiast of the budget, who was alone, giving a friendly smile and swaying his tail with excitement. "Fatima et Monsieur Pseudon, bienvenue," he greeted cheerfully, extending his hand as the couple approached to greet him, shaking hands with Pseudon and giving a small bow to Fatima. "I've taken the time to select the slave already. I would've offered you a 2x1, but one died suddenly yesterday, and I had to replace him. Ever since mon père died and left me all these triceratops on his lands, selling them brings great benefits. You should try," he chuckled, while Pseudon briefly imagined how he would react to being put to work under the whip. "Come, come, let's go to my house, and I'll introduce you to the Triceratops. She's the best I have to offer to a friend of la famille." They walked through a dirt corridor lined with grape plantations, reaching the house and taking seats in the living room. They sat on the guest sofa, making themselves comfortable. "Feel at ease. I'll be back with the Triceratops in a few minutes, Monsieur Mous," he said as he left the sight of the Mous couple, and shortly after, they heard a door open and close. "I always have to say it; your friend is quite... odd," Pseudon said with a somewhat mocking smile, while Fatima rolled her eyes a bit with a smile on her lips. "Yes, he always found negotiating and such exciting. Poor thing, he's just limited to managing these lands by mere inheritance," she glanced at her husband before sweeping her gaze around the room. There were no photos or paintings of any lady, indicating that their friend hadn't married yet. After a few minutes of waiting, the French host returned to the living room accompanied by a young amethyst-colored slave—Lettuce. Her gaze was down, avoiding direct eye contact with the guests, and she remained silent. "Allow me to introduce you to Lettuce. The poor savage was captured by a guy with a lousy last name," announced the host, placing a hand on the young slave's shoulder. Lettuce made a small bow, still avoiding looking directly into Fatima and Pseudon's eyes. Pseudon felt a pang of sadness at the sight, but he forced himself to maintain composure, furrowing his brow a bit, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of acquiring someone as property. "A pleasure to meet you, Lettuce," Fatima said kindly, trying to make the young woman feel a bit more comfortable. The host continued talking about Amina's skills and qualities, highlighting her ability for child-rearing and obedience. Fatima and Pseudon listened attentively, especially Fatima, though Pseudon... his thoughts were elsewhere. He felt uneasy about the idea of owning another person, but at the same time, he knew he could provide her with a better life, similar to the northern triceratops. "We'll take her," said Fatima, completely swayed by how her friend presented Lettuce. Pseudon nodded in agreement, feeling a knot in his stomach about the situation. He wondered internally, as always, how the South could see these acts as normal. However, if they decided to take her with them, at least it could bring another soul condemned to their abode by necessity. The afternoon continued with conversations on various topics. When it was time to leave, the deal closed, and the Frenchman handed Lettuce a collar with a chain, along with its respective key. Knowing how "sensitive" her husband was with these matters, Fatima, taking the initiative, reached for it, earning an arched eyebrow from the budget. Once in the carriage, Pseudon took the initiative and, with the key given by the Frenchman, said in a serene tone, as if trying to soothe an upset dog, "Allow me." He removed the chain, surprising Lettuce. "You're free to speak to us; we won't beat you, Letug..." he coughed a bit, trying to pronounce that name, making Fatima laugh a bit while gently patting his back. "It's 'Lettuce,' dear, but I think it would be better to give her another nickname," she said with sweetness in her voice. When he regained his composure, he earned a cheek kiss from his wife. "Let's see... how about 'Amethyst'?" she suggested, waiting for a response from her husband. "Let her decide, my love," he said while looking into the slave's eyes, pausing for a brief moment to meet her gaze, discreetly inspecting her body. Thanks to his studies, he could deduce that she had given birth at some point, solving two significant mysteries even though the time remained unknown. Returning to her eyes, he noticed something else: she and Fatima shared the same eye color, gleaming amethyst. "Why decide, my lord?" the slave finally deigned to speak. Her voice was low, denoting surprise that a human let her speak. "Pseudon, they're savages; they don't know about..." Fatima was cut off as Pseudon raised a hand, signaling her to stop. He had had enough of such comments for now. Fatima sighed, looking at the landscape as they traveled. "Let her decide," Pseudon insisted, looking at the slave. She felt it as a direct order, unsure how to react. Could she choose? A slight spark of happiness appeared in her heart, feeling it beat like a drunk kicking a door forcefully. She could decide. She lowered her gaze with a bit of shame, "I-I don't like it," finally, finally, she could say no. Fatima and Pseudon exchanged a significant look. Both recognized the courage in the young slave's eyes, one taking it better than the other. Impressed by her determination, Pseudon nodded slowly, respecting her decision. "All right, we won't call you Amethyst. Do you have any name in mind that you prefer?" Fatima asked kindly, showing a side of herself that she rarely revealed. The slave hesitated for a moment, as if processing the idea that she was allowed to choose her own name. Finally, she looked up and said with a trembling but firm voice, "I'd like to be called Trisha, my lady. It's a name I've always admired in the tales they used to tell me before all of this happened." Pseudon nodded approvingly, and a small smile appeared on his lips. "Trisha is a beautiful name. From now on, that will be your name. And I want you to know that you're free to speak; you're going to take care of my son. I trust you'll do an excellent job, Trisha," Fatima said warmly, welcoming Trisha to sit beside her in the carriage. They sat together, talking a bit about how things were when Trisha was not yet their property. As the carriage continued its journey, Trisha began to feel a glimmer of hope, something she believed was lost forever. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to imagine a future where she could be the master of her destiny. At that moment, in the middle of the carriage and beneath Fatima and Pseudon, she found a small corner of peace and freedom in a world that, until now, had only shown her cruelty and suffering. The months passed, and Trisha's arrival was well-received at the hacienda, where cotton and indigofera were cultivated alternately. Sunlight flooded the Mous kitchen as Trisha stood next to a pot as large as a well, preparing a vegetable soup. Her new mentor was by her side, cutting vegetables and sharing stories of tribal traditions and the person Trisha was supposedly going to replace in the future. "Oh yes! Mr. Mous loves books from the North. He has a friend who sends him books every now and then with updates from those lands," the mentor said, smiling nostalgically as she passed vegetables to her fellow slave. Trisha listened attentively, intrigued by the story of the Northern books and Mr. Mous's connection to those distant lands. As she stirred the soup in the enormous pot, she couldn't help but inquire more about the books and Mr. Mous's friend. "How does Mr. Mous have a friend in those Northern lands? And what kind of books does he send?" Trisha asked with curiosity, trying to keep the conversation light despite the circumstances. The mentor gave her a friendly look and continued speaking while continuing her task. "Mr. Mous is a man of refined tastes and has always had a special interest in knowledge. His friend, a traveling merchant, roams various lands and has established a business relationship with him. The books he sends are a window to the outside world for Mr. Mous. He is fascinated by adventure stories, philosophical treatises, and tales of distant places he has never seen. Through those books, he can explore unknown worlds without leaving his home." Trisha nodded, impressed by Mr. Mous's passion for knowledge and how he found solace in the Northern books. Though Trisha wanted to continue the topic, she stopped for a moment to look at her mentor. "And what about Mrs. Mous? Does she like them too?" The question prompted the mentor to pause. "Wait a moment Trisha," she said, peering out and noticing that Fatima and Pseudon were still having breakfast on the porch, as was their custom. Returning to Trisha with a sigh at just the thought of the redhead, she answered, aware of Trisha's curiosity. "Mrs. Mous is a lady of refined tastes as well, but her interaction with us, the slaves, is more ambivalent. At times, she can be kind and tolerant, especially when her husband is around. But on other occasions, she shows disdain and treats us with contempt, even forgetting our names at times. She is mainly occupied with her hobbies, such as weaving and painting, and seems more interested in her own life and comfort than in us." Trisha nodded in understanding, grasping the complexity of the situation. It was clear that Mr. and Mrs. Mous had very different personalities and attitudes towards the slaves. After finishing the soup, she covered the pot and carried it to the barn where they usually heated the food. Upon returning, she noticed the Mous family, and seeing Mrs. Mous, Fatima, with a noticeable baby bump, evoked a feeling of emptiness that Trisha always tried to overcome. With a sigh, she walked inside, and as soon as her feet crossed the threshold, she gently caressed her own stomach, remembering something Fatima had achieved that she hadn't. "Well, gentlemen, it was a pleasure doing business with you. We'll be seeing you, and have a safe journey," Pseudon said in a rather formal tone, shaking hands with one of the visitors at the door of his house, a pterosaur and a well-dressed human for the time period. Once they left, Pseudon let out a relieved sigh; he didn't like dealing with such formal people in business. A feminine voice interrupted his brief peace, and turning around, he saw Trisha. "Oh, it's you, Trisha. What happened?" The young triceratops smiled, friendly as always. "Mrs. Carrote sent me to ask you..." Her smile faded when a scream from a familiar voice echoed from Pseudon's room. "Fatima!?" Pseudon, alarmed, rushed upstairs and opened the door, finding his wife lying on the bed, sweating like a damp window. Pseudon's expression filled with panic at the sight of his wife Fatima in that condition. He rushed towards her while Carrote and Trisha followed closely. The room filled with palpable tension as Pseudon took Fatima's hand in desperation. "Fatima, please, hold on!" Pseudon whispered, struggling to remain calm as he watched his beloved wife suffer. Tears began to blur his eyes as he tried to be strong for her and their unborn baby. "Help me!" His mind couldn't think clearly; he was disoriented. Fatima weakly smiled, trying to reassure him despite the pain consuming her. "I love you, Pseudon. I'll be okay," she whispered with a strained voice, her eyes reflecting both love and determination. Carrote quickly went into action, trying to assist in the delivery. The room filled with the distressing sounds of Fatima, mixed with the hurried murmurs of the old woman and Pseudon's silent tears. Finally, with one last breath, Fatima brought their child into the world with superhuman effort. A fragile cry filled the room, but the smile on Fatima's face quickly faded. Pseudon held their son in his arms, his eyes filled with joy and sadness at the same time. "Fatima, please, hold on a little longer. Our son is here," Pseudon pleaded, but he knew it was futile. Fatima gently stroked his cheek, her eyes meeting his as her strength dwindled. "I love you, I love both of you," she whispered before slowly closing her eyes. The room fell silent, except for Pseudon's sobs as he held their son in his arms. [NOTES] This story would not be possible without the help of: -lliyo (Editor) -Maniac (Artist) -M. kaiman (Editor) -ElNegro (Editor) -srmapache (Historian) -Kraull (artist -Spoopygirl (she check that my English is not torture to read)