It had been a month and a half in that land where cotton flourished under the splendid sun.

 

Pseudon, a man clinging to his legacy, was sitting in his chair on the porch of his home. His task was to extract from that land the very essence of life, cultivating crops that his ancestors had owned with sweat and hope.

 

The morning sun, like a divine goldsmith, spilled golden flashes onto the delicate cotton, while Pseudon, wrapped in stillness and solitude, immersed himself in the peace that this austere reading corner provided him. Gently, he held a literary treatise between his hands, its pages echoing veneration with every turn. His eyes, absorbed in the dance of printed letters, unknowingly sought refuge in the stories unfolding before him, a fleeting distraction from the mournful thoughts his heart carried since the loss of his beloved wife.

 

Inside the home, Carrote's melodious voice shone like a sweet song, calling Trisha, who came with serene steps, carrying in her arms the little treasure that, wrapped in fragility, awakened illusions and dreams. Each step of Trisha was touched by maternal grace, and her eyes reflected a deep connection with the baby she cradled with tender love.

 

"What can I help you with, Carrote?" inquired Trisha with a warm and sweet voice as she approached with firm steps towards the elderly woman, who seemed to carry the burden of fatigue on her shoulders. Every caress of Trisha on the baby's cheek was like a gentle note, a soft lullaby that glided in the air, revealing a bond that transcended mere humanity.

 

Carrote, visibly exhausted, calmly shared, "I am exhausted, Trisha. Could you do a kind gesture and prepare coffee for Mr. Mous? I will take care of this baby," Carrote requested, extending her arms gently toward the baby. However, in Trisha's gaze, she perceived a spark of disagreement, as if the idea of handing over the baby to another caregiver was uncomfortable and challenging.

 

With a mix of discontent and resignation, Trisha yielded, lifting the baby into Carrote's arms. A sigh, like a melancholic symphony, escaped from Trisha's lips, as if circumstances had forced her to accept a destiny that she could not fully control.

 

With grace and fluidity, Trisha moved through the kitchen, while the little treasure rested serenely in the arms of the elderly woman. The energetic and intoxicating aroma of freshly roasted coffee filled the air, announcing the ceremony that was about to begin. With skillful hands, Trisha carefully selected the coffee beans from the bag, observing the texture and color of each as if they were earth's own jewels.

 

With a satisfied sigh, she began to grind the beans in the coffee grinder, the soft and constant sound filling the kitchen with an earthly music. Each turn of the grinder was a step closer to the creation of that dark drink that promised comfort and vitality.

 

After precisely measuring the ground coffee, Trisha proceeded to heat the water in an antique kettle, the steam rising like a mysterious veil. While waiting, her eyes landed on a small container that housed brown sugar, a touch of sweetness that would be added to the dark essence of the coffee.

 

The water reached its boiling point, and with elegance, Trisha poured it over the ground coffee, initiating the infusion process. The intoxicating aroma intensified, filling the space with the promise of a sensory experience in every sip.

 

As the coffee infused, Trisha took a couple of teaspoons of brown sugar and added them gracefully to the dark liquid. She watched attentively as sugar particles danced in spirals before dissolving, an ephemeral spectacle anticipating the sweetness that would soon envelop every drop of the drink.

 

Finally, with patience that revealed her devotion to the art of coffee, Trisha filtered the mixture, letting the dark liquid drip slowly into the cup. A reverent silence filled the kitchen as she contemplated the creation of her masterpiece: a sweet black coffee, merging the intensity of the coffee with the delicate embrace of sweetness.

 

With the cup in her hands, Trisha gave the finishing touch, adding a small sprinkle of cinnamon on the surface. The fresh aroma of cinnamon intertwined with the coffee, adding a layer of complexity to the drink.

 

Trisha's smile lit up the kitchen like a ray of light, illuminating her face with the satisfaction of having completed her masterpiece. Carefully, she took the coffee cup between her hands, feeling the comforting warmth emanating from the drink. The cup, adorned with a subtle spiral of steam, was a work of art in its own right.

 

With silent but determined steps, Trisha headed towards the porch where Pseudon, the young master, was absorbed in his reading, oblivious to the world unfolding around him. The soft rustle of the leaves being trampled barely interrupted the murmur of the pages turning.

 

"Here is your breakfast, Mr. Mous," announced Trisha with deference, presenting the coffee cup as if it were a precious gift, almost spilling a drop on that ceramic artifact, denoting a certain clumsiness that intertwined with her elegance. The intoxicating fragrance of coffee, mixed with the sweetness of sugar and the aroma of cinnamon, wafted in the air, tempting the palate like an irresistible invitation.

 

Trisha's smile brightened even more, like a beacon in the gloom, as she handed the coffee cup to Pseudon. Her eyes, sparkling with curiosity and admiration, focused on the printed letters in the book he held, as if expecting to unravel the secrets behind them. The complicity between the slave and her young master was woven with threads of respect and connection, like two souls entwined in a harmonious dance, and although Trisha could not read, her desire to understand Pseudon's world was palpable.

 

"Mr. Mous, what are you reading in that book?" Trisha asked, her voice imbued with a curiosity rooted in an insatiable thirst for knowledge. It was evident that, despite her lack of reading ability, Pseudon's narrative sparked her imagination and a longing to share that literary world.

 

Pseudon, with a understanding smile, slightly lowered the book. The cover, with its elegant letters, revealed a title wrapped in an aura of literary greatness, which would become a bridge between both worlds.

 

"It's 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' My favorite book," Pseudon responded warmly, captivated by the gleam of enthusiasm in his slave's eyes.

"And what is it about?" Trisha asked as she approached, carefully observing the intriguing twists and curves adorning the book cover.

 

"It's about a slave named Tom, who is sold by his master to settle debts alongside a child slave. However, when the child's mother, Eliza, learns of this, she decides to escape that very night with her son to prevent them from being taken. And so begins a story that intertwines two destinies in a single novel," Pseudon replied, igniting Trisha's curiosity with each spoken word.

 

The plot involving the mother and her son fueled Trisha's curiosity even more; her eyes

 

 were fixed on the book, eager to know the details of that exciting story. But her inability to read was reflected in her face; Pseudon noticed her distress and asked:

 

"What's wrong, Trisha? Did I say something wrong?"

 

"Oh... No!" she replied, startled and coming out of her thoughts. However, Mous's gaze indicated that that lie wouldn't save her. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mous... It's just that I would like to know the details of the book, but I can't read..." her embarrassment took hold of her in that moment.

 

Trisha's confession impressed Pseudon, who felt honored that someone showed interest in his favorite book. A warm smile appeared on his lips as he offered a solution:

 

"Do you want me to read it to you?" came out of his lips tenderly. Trisha adjusted her hair delicately, averting her gaze, showing her embarrassment at the idea that the master would offer such a favor to his slave.

 

"Sir... I don't want to be rude, but I am a slave..."

 

"Slave or not, you're interested in this story. If you don't have others pending tasks, you can stay here. Bring a chair and sit next to me; I don't want you cramping your legs from standing," he said, looking her in the eyes for the first time. His eyes, of an intense amethyst color, shone on her reptilian eyes, evoking a storm of memories that fought not to succumb. Meanwhile, Trisha sighed, returning her gaze to the empty seat beside her, remembering that no one would sit there, as it was still the seat of the woman with blood-red hair.

 

Shortly after, Trisha returned, carrying a chair that contrasted with the others, being a discordant element in the aesthetic harmony of the farm. Pseudon, with a kind gesture, helped Trisha place the chair beside him. The creaking of the wood resonated on the porch, creating a subtle melody that would accompany the reading. Trisha sat down, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement, while her eyes remained fixed on Pseudon, awaiting the start of the reading.

 

With a serene voice, Pseudon began to narrate the pages of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." His words flowed with a gentle cadence, like a river carrying ancestral and profound stories. Every description, every dialogue, created vivid images in Trisha's mind, who absorbed every word eagerly.

 

The plot unfolded before them, and Trisha immersed herself in a world completely foreign to hers. She could feel Tom's kindness, Eliza's bravery, and the cruelty of those who traded in triceratops' lives. The story resonated in her heart, awakening emotions she was completely unfamiliar with.

 

The morning flew by as both remained together, completely focused on the book's narration. Each page, each chapter, transported them to a different place, leaving behind the worries and responsibilities of the present.

 

Twilight wove golden shadows over the porch, and Pseudon's reading hung in the air like an unfinished melody. The literary connection between him and Trisha was abruptly broken when a clearing of the throat interrupted the afternoon tranquility. Both adult and young were startled, and they turned their heads in unison toward the source of the interruption.

 

Carrote, with her authoritative presence and an arched eyebrow, crossed her arms in a gesture announcing imminent duties. "Trisha, dear, can you help me prepare dinner for your companions?" she declared firmly, cutting the delicate thread of the shared reading. Without waiting for a response, she withdrew into the house, leaving behind an urgent task.

 

Trisha gracefully stood up from the chair, although resignation was evident in her expression. Her eyes, now averted, met Pseudon's, and a small smile appeared on her lips. It was a shy smile, like a flower timidly opening to the afternoon sun.

 

"Thank you, Mr. Mous, for... taking the time to read the book to me," Trisha expressed with a soft voice, almost like a whisper of leaves caressed by the breeze. She looked away, showing palpable modesty in her gesture. This kind of interaction, this gesture of gratitude and acknowledgment, was something she was not accustomed to in her position.

 

Pseudon, sitting on the porch, nodded with an understanding smile. The brevity of the connection did not diminish its importance. It was like a fleeting chapter in a broader story. "It was a pleasure, Trisha. If you ever want to continue the reading, I'll be here," he replied, She simply nodded in silence as she headed toward the house.

 

The sound of boiling water dominated the kitchen, emanating steam where a large pot was cooking. Trisha took a spoon and began to stir the ingredients, while Mrs. Carrote stood by her side, chopping the vegetables they had available.

 

"Mr. Mous has always been a good boy, you know?" Carrote said with a maternal smile forming on her lips. Although not his biological mother, she cared for him as if she were during his childhood, even though Mous considered her more like a good family friend.

 

"Of course, although I've always felt a fascination about it... You know, his..." Trisha whispered as she delicately stroked his head and slid her fingers through his curls. Carrote took a moment to understand what she meant, but then burst into a soft laugh directed at the young triceratops.

 

"Yes, haha, sadly, that happens to all the Mous. If they're born with hair, they tear it out. That's what I heard from Pseudon's grandfather, or that's what they told him," Carrote declared while releasing a nostalgic sigh, skillfully chopping the vegetables on the wooden board. Once the vegetables were finely chopped, Carrote added them to the boiling water, while Trisha continued stirring the soup with care.

 

The intoxicating aroma of vegetable soup filled the kitchen, impregnating the air with the promise of a simple yet comforting feast. Trisha, with purple hands dancing elegantly in culinary preparation, immersed herself in the task with dedication. Her movements, delicate like flower petals, brought life to the creation of this delicacy that would nourish both bodies and souls.

 

"And Unknow, is he resting?" the young slave questioned, raising an eyebrow as her eyes sparkled with the spark of curiosity. The soup, flowing like a river of colors and aromas, came to life under her skillful hands.

 

“Yes, he is in his room, in a sleep as peaceful as you can imagine”, replied Carrote, her voice resonating like the whisper of leaves caressed by a gentle breeze. Her presence, reminiscent of a wise old woman in an ancestral tale, infused a sense of warmth in the kitchen.

 

“He inherited his father's serenity”, Trisha murmured with a smile, waving her tail gracefully. Her lips, spokespersons of her emotional state, revealed the deep connection she had with that little being they considered their own. Without warning, she remembered that she had to ask her elderly friend a question.

 

“There will be a meeting of slaves in the barn tonight, right?” inquired Trisha, sliding smoothly to make room for the elderly woman as she continued to stir the soup. The anticipation of a special event tinted her voice with a hint of excited enthusiasm.

 

“Uh, yes. Why do you ask?”, Carrote replied, her words resonating like echoes of past stories that spoke of clandestine meetings under the moonlight.

 

“I just feel like attending. I don't usually participate in these kinds of gatherings often, but today I feel the desire to immerse myself in them”, Trisha commented with modesty, her eyes shining with the illusion of being part of a ritual that escaped everyday constraints. Her tail, in a curious dance, expressed her eagerness to explore those moments with other triceratops.

 

“Oh, dear, you don't have to ask for permission. Just go and enjoy. Mr. Mous left some wine for us”, advised Carrote, her maternal tone flowing effortlessly from her lips.

 

The kitchen, saturated with the intoxicating aroma of the soup bubbling in the cast-iron pot, became the perfect stage for a lively exchange of tales, where voices resonated like harmonious melodies. The sizzling and gentle murmur of cooking created a symphony of flavors and fragrances that enveloped every corner, inviting the senses to immerse themselves in a culinary delight.

 

Trisha, with agile fingers moving gracefully over the wooden spoon, released every bit of wisdom acquired in the barn meetings, while Carrote, with the knife dancing between her expert hands, added anecdotes full of color and meaning. Words flowed like threads of silver, weaving a fabric of memories and shared experiences, and laughter, like crystalline waterfalls, broke the silence of the kitchen.

 

The warm glow of the overhead lamp highlighted the gestures of complicity between the young slave and her devoted friend, illuminating their faces with flashes of nostalgia and joy. Meanwhile, the soup, in its bubbling frenzy, released its unparalleled fragrance into the air, awakening dormant appetites and paving the way for a feast that would not only satisfy stomachs but also hearts.

 

Between spoonfuls and shared laughter, the conversation transported both Trisha and Carrote to those times of freedom when nights in the barn meant a refuge for slaves, an oasis of unity and resilience against the injustices of the outside world. The stories, like twinkling stars in the dark sky, illuminated souls and reinforced the courage and determination to face each new dawn.

 

Thus, enveloped in the warmth of home and delighting in the culinary delights emanating from the vegetable soup, those shared moments in the kitchen stood as a testament to the magic that unfolds when beings, whether human or in this case reptilian, come together in the communion of words and friendship.




That day, in the afternoon bathed by a warm sun ready to take its well-deserved rest, Pseudon, after an exhausting day of bureaucratic procedures, yearned to immerse himself in the practice of a sport he had set aside. He walked around his property, near the borders; not far from there stood a shed. Pseudon entered it and emerged holding a box filled with useless empty bottles and his new acquisition, a Colt 1851 Navy revolver, acquired a few months ago.

 

Pseudon meticulously adjusted the iron sight of his weapon, precisely observing the bottles arranged on a sturdy wooden board. The sun's rays, filtered through the leaves of nearby trees, created a captivating play of light and shadows in the clear area where he stood.

 

He inhaled deeply, focusing on the task before him. The gentle breeze stirred the leaves around him as his fingers felt the sturdy roughness of the trigger. This training represented an opportunity to refine his skills, to perfect his aim, and Pseudon, patient and reflective, took the time to visualize the ideal trajectory that would hit the bottles with surgical precision.

 

With a fluid movement, he pulled the trigger. The revolver emitted a distinctive sound as the projectile headed unwaveringly toward its target. The first bottle burst into a burst of crystalline fragments, scattering them in all directions. Pseudon smiled, delighted and pleased with his accurate shot.

 

As he prepared for the next shot, Pseudon reflected on his skill with firearms. He wasn't a master, but neither was he a novice. He had learned to navigate the art of precision without falling into the dark abyss of malice. Throughout his life, he had faced challenges that demanded perfecting his defensive skills on his property, with marksmanship being an extension of that unavoidable necessity.

 

Focused, with a single goal in mind, Pseudon aimed and fired again. This time, the second bottle only felt the slight touch of the projectile, confirming that his skill still had room for improvement. He took a moment to delight in the natural surroundings before refocusing his attention on the target represented by the third bottle.

 

The atmosphere became charged with palpable tension as Pseudon prepared for his next shot. His fingers, skillful and determined, gracefully rested on the trigger, ready to release the force contained in the precious hammer of the revolver. The iron sight, a precision instrument gleaming under the golden sun, aimed accurately at the designated target. Pseudon, with the serenity of a marksmanship artist, inhaled deeply, letting the air fill with the energy that would propel him toward victory. And, with a slow but firm exhale, he prepared to unleash his skill.

 

Just at the pinnacle of his concentration, in that climactic moment when every sense sharpens, Pseudon felt something unexpected: a caress, a gentle caress that strangely felt familiar. Surprise shone in his eyes as his figure stiffened, and suddenly, the world around him seemed to fade into the background. It was as if, for a moment, he was and wanted to be only that caress, existing solely in that vivid touch of skin and airs of mystery.

 

Because of that mysterious touch, Pseudon accidentally fired, causing the bullet to graze the bottle without causing damage. Dazzled, Pseudon quickly turned his eyes in search of the source of such a sweet and unfamiliar caress, but found nothing but the clearing bathed in the golden rays of the sun and the gentle echo of the wind whispering through the leaves. There was no one else, only him, his faithful companion in battles, the revolver, and the subtly present voices of nature in their fullness. Intrigued and on alert, Pseudon raised his weapon again, his eyes scanning the surroundings with even sharper attention, as if expecting the enigma to reveal itself in a fleeting blink. And, in a final burst of skill, he expertly shot the fourth bottle, marking its irreverent demise with precision.

 

Pseudon, with a spirit thirsty for answers, temporarily left the shooting range and headed towards his box of glass targets. As he checked the box, a resonant and jovial adult voice, with a rough and rustic Mexican accent, surprised him to the core of his being. The voice was so real, so tangible, that Pseudon couldn't resist the urge to turn toward it.

 

"Hey, Patron!" resonates Carlos' voice, Pseudon's foreman. Carlos's marked Spanish accent gives a distinctive touch to his words. Pseudon straightens up, surprised by the sudden interruption, and a smile forms on his face as he recognizes his loyal friend and collaborator.

 

"Oh, hello, Carlos," Pseudon responds, raising his hand in an elegant greeting gesture. Carlos approaches with confident steps, his curious eyes fixed on the clearing where Pseudon has been honing his marksmanship.

 

"How's everything going, Patron?" Carlos asks, combining respect and camaraderie in his tone. As he speaks, he casts a cautious glance at Pseudon's revolver and the glass bottles meticulously arranged on the wooden board.

 

Pseudon nods pleased, skillfully placing his revolver aside. "Everything in perfect order, Carlos. Just practicing to stay sharp. And you? How did the triceratops on the farm fare?"

 

Carlos shrugs with a playful smile. "As always, Boss. The cotton is in optimal condition, and the slaves are fulfilling their tasks, none rebellious... since I'm free, I decided to see what you were up to, Boss." Carlos glances seductively at the revolver, "how about a practice partner?" and Carlos touches his belt, drawing his revolver.

 

Both share a complicit look, inherent to their long friendship. "Well, let's continue with the practice."

 

Carlos smiles and nods. "Of course, Boss. Who shall we aim at first?"

 

Pseudon points at the glass bottles elegantly arranged "By the way, do you have any news from the city?"

 

"Nothing particularly interesting, just some rumors," Carlos replied, as he takes the initiative and shoots with precision, shattering the first bottle into pieces.

 

"Rumors such as?" inquires Pseudon, raising an eyebrow as he aims at the adjacent bottle. With a precise shot, he makes the bottle explode into a thousand pieces. A self-satisfied smile forms on his face, showing off in front of his employee.

 

" Bastardo suertudo … where was he headed? That's what the rumors say about a candidate for the Republican Party's presidency; he's a tall one," Carlos said as he adjusted for the next shot with one hand, aiming at the next bottle "but according to the news, it's neck and neck between three others, Patron." Carlos fires, grazing the bottle's neck without breaking it.

 

Intrigued by the political rumors Carlos shares, Pseudon continues the conversation while reloading his weapon with skill and elegance. His fingers move with skill and precision over the bullets, inserting them into the revolver's cylinder with a smooth and satisfying click.

 

"Tall one? I only know of a tall one who tried to be Vice President about six years ago when he was 18..." he mutters to himself, playing with his revolver as he tries to remember, a pensive and enigmatic expression on his face.

 

Carlos, now with the revolver raised, stops his next shot upon hearing Pseudon's words. "Abraham Neck. His name is Lincoln..." he responds, eliciting a surprised and admiring expression from Pseudon.

 

”How do you know him?” Carlos asks, his curiosity evident as Pseudon takes a shot with almost hypnotic precision and smoothness, although this time he misses as well. However, the elegance of his gesture only enhances his charisma and skill.

 

“Always keeping an eye on magazines, and I had a pen pal who lived in Philadelphia, the one who buys me books” Pseudon responds with a deep voice slightly laden with nostalgia, as he spins his gun and shoots again, only tearing off the top of the glass packaging, revealing his technical skill.

 

"Nice shot, Ocelot style, complete with the wrist spin. Too bad it didn't explode," Carlos would say with a friendly laugh, acknowledging Pseudon's skill.

 

"Ah, I'm only good when there's nothing left," Pseudon replies with an ironic smile, although the spark of amusement shines in his eyes. The friendly competition continues as the two friends enjoy the majestic sunset in the forest clearing, sharing stories and news. They blend the tranquility of nature with the dino-human connection in the midst of target practice, creating an almost magical and enigmatic atmosphere.

 

"And now what?" Pseudon asks, looking at all the shattered bottles. He then turns his gaze to his friend, the Foreman, who looks at him with an enigmatic expression and gestures with his eyes to indicate that he should bring new targets. A sigh escapes from Pseudon's lips, expressing his acceptance of the responsibility.

 

"Alright, I'll do it," he says in a friendly tone, his figure gliding elegantly toward the box of bottles. With smooth but precise movements, he places the last four glass targets and positions himself to shoot alongside Carlos.

 

"And how's your family? It's been years since I've heard anything about them" Pseudon asks, being the first to shoot. His shot misses by just a few millimeters, but the elegance with which he holds his gun and the subtlety of his movement provide a fascinating contrast.

 

"Well, my brother is about to become a father for the fourth time. It amazes me how time flies; it feels like I found out I was going to be an uncle just yesterday" Carlos raises his revolver, aiming firmly and precisely at his target. "And how is Unknow?" he asks as he gently squeezes the trigger, making the bottle explode into sparkling pieces of glass.

 

Pseudon gives a warm and tender smile at the thought of his son. "Well, you should see him when he stares at someone; it's truly fascinating," he comments, his voice filled with affection and admiration. He watches as his friend shoots and effortlessly shatters the bottle. In a movement as fast as it is efficient, he raises his gun and shoots at the next bottle, pleasantly surprising himself by hitting it purely by luck.

 

"So, you boast about being fast, huh?" Carlos comments with a spark of competition in his eyes, admiring Pseudon's skill. The latter just shrugs indifferently, playfully mocking him a bit. He tries to do the same, elegantly stowing his revolver. In an agile movement, he shoots with his rifle... However, the bottle doesn't break; instead, the sound of a bird's cry is heard before it explodes into a beautiful burst of feathers.

 

"Damn... you have to see me with my carbine, Boss," Carlos mutters, his voice filled with surprise and admiration, neatly putting away his revolver once again.

 

"I have no doubt that you're good at that. I heard Mexicans know how to use those things. In fact... I think you could give me advice with the one my father gave me at 18," he laughs lightly "I still remember the note he left with the gift."

 

Carlos, raising an eyebrow, would look at his boss "And what did it say?"

 

"To use it well when I see a Peruvian..." Pseudon laughs 

 

“what?”



Under the cloak of darkness, the firmament unfolds like a starry canvas, sprinkled with flashes of light that twinkle like well-guarded secrets. The moon, serene and silvery, hangs in the sky like an ancient lantern, spilling its soft radiance upon the earth. Amidst this enigmatic atmosphere, shrouded in an almost magical dusk, Trisha, a slender and elegant figure, can be seen confidently walking through the field toward the barn.

 

The barn, majestic and steeped in history, stood imposing in the rural landscape. Its weathered wooden walls, worn by the elements and marked by the passage of time, told the tale of decades of service and hard work. The chipped paint and worn boards were silent witnesses to the seasonal changes and storms that had swept through the area.

 

The massive wooden doors creaked open slowly, as if their ancient spirit resisted the march of time. Upon entering, Trisha found herself enveloped in a dark and dusty interior. The evening light filtered through the small cracks between the boards, creating a dance of flickering shadows that seemed like whispers from the past. The packed earth floor was covered with straw, its golden hues faintly gleaming under the light streaming from above.

 

In the heart of the barn, a cozy and rustic space had been fashioned with hay bales carefully arranged to create improvised seating. The sweet, earthy fragrance of hay mingled with the scent of aged wood, creating a warm and inviting ambiance. In the center of this makeshift lounge, a rough-hewn wooden table, worn by the years, was surrounded by bottles of wine, some empty and others half-full.

 

The triceratops present, clad in worn and dusty work clothes, occupied the improvised seats. Men and women of different ages shared laughter and lively conversations, toasting with wine glasses that sparkled under the barn's dim light. Their faces, weathered by the sun and farm labor, reflected camaraderie and the satisfaction of a well-deserved break.

 

Despite the imperfections and wear and tear of the barn, this place had become a cozy and unique refuge where the triceratops found solace and companionship amidst rural life. Their hearts, as large as their bodies, united in that sacred space to share joys, challenges, and moments of intimacy.

 

When Trisha arrived at the barn, she observed that the others had already started enjoying the wine before her arrival. With kindness and elegance, she greeted each of them. Then, she sat next to her companion, Carrote.

 

"You finally made it, Trisha! What took you so long?" the elderly woman said with a soft and warm voice, holding a wooden cup of wine with her wrinkled hands. With grace and skill, she poured some and offered it to Trisha, who took the cup with gratitude and appreciation.

 

"Unknow didn't want to fall asleep... I hope he doesn't cry and wake up Mr. Mous. He seemed contemplative when he said goodnight." Trisha shared with concern, taking a sip of the wine, enjoying its sweetness and exquisite body. Every small detail of the flavor was delicately appreciated, revealing her refined palate. "Why doesn't Mr. Mous drink? It's delicious." she asked with genuine curiosity.

 

"Mr. Mous avoids drinking for... personal reasons." Carrote responded with a slightly choked voice, showing respect and discretion. She didn't want to compromise her master's privacy by revealing delicate details of his life.

 

"Oh, right, his wife..." Trisha said, looking away, regretting having forgotten such a crucial detail.

 

"It's not that. Let's say his father and alcohol weren't the best combination..." Carrote whispered, subtly revealing a part of the story without disclosing too much. She respected her master's privacy and knew when to keep silent.

 

"Oh... grieving men and alcohol are like blood in war." Trisha commented with a sigh, reflecting on the relationship between sorrow and alcohol consumption, as if unveiling a deep understanding.

 

"Hey, Trisha!" a moss-green triceratops interrupted, a green reminiscent of moss. She was slightly taller than Trisha, giving her a majestic presence.

 

"Oh... uh..." Trisha hesitated, her gaze lost in the air as she tried to remember the name of the mysterious triceratops.

 

"Ada," Carrote whispered in a low tone, as if revealing a matter of great importance, her words floating in the air with an air of intrigue.

 

"Ada!" Trisha exclaimed suddenly, as if a light bulb had lit up over her head. Her expression of relief and recognition was so dramatic that if there were a hypothetical hen in the barn, it would have paused in its hypothetical clucking to observe the scene. "How was your day? We haven't talked since the last meeting." she said with a charming smile, clumsily trying to hide her nervousness. In her voice, there was a tone of sincerity, combined with a touch of intrigue and curiosity.

 

The moss-green triceratops let out a soft and melodious laugh, gliding gracefully to Trisha's side. Her laughter sounded like a whisper in the wind, gently caressing the atmosphere. She settled with the elegance of a butterfly landing on a delicate flower.

 

"Well, the guys are still a bit tense after their fight during work." Trisha's eyes shifted towards Pseudon's group of male slaves, who were recklessly drinking Mr. Mous's wine. "Although Mous's wine makes them forget their fights for a moment." a brief silence fell between the three slaves, full of insinuations and complicity. "And now, tell us something about yourself, Trisha, let's make the most of the long night."

 

Trisha began with a trembling voice, her words hovering in the air like leaves moved by a gentle nighttime breeze. "I grew up on a large tobacco plantation, but then we switched to planting cotton... I don't know much about my father and mother." In that twilight of memories, nostalgia emerged like a melancholic melody whispered in the shadows of the past. It was like a distant echo, a sigh that caressed her lips with the softness of fallen leaves on a windless day.

 

In the silence loaded with unspoken words, Ada tried to weave threads of apology on her lips, forming a tangle of regret that smoothly slides on the loom of conversation. However, Trisha's words interrupted her intentions.

 

"They sold her when I was around six... " she paused again... "During that time, the other slaves took care of me. Around eleven, tasks started being assigned, and..." As she narrated her story, her fingers traced gently along the line of her back, as if wanting to erase the scars imprinted on her skin. Each caress was an act of self-love, a form of resistance amidst the narrative. "I was always quite clumsy... and still am." she teased herself, feeling a comforting hand on her shoulder, it was Carrote.

 

"You're lying, young lady. You're doing a good job here, and you're taking very good care of that soft-skinned little one... Let's hope he's like his father. You know how those non-triceratops folks tend to be when they get carried away by others' opinions."

 

"I trust Mr. Mous; I know he'll do a great job." Trisha said as she gazed into her glass, taking another sip and savoring the liquid passing over her tongue. She observed herself reflected in the wine, while the question resonated within her: ‘Tell us something about yourself, Trisha.’ Those letters conjugated into words full of meaning echoed like a deep cave, within her being.

 

Her mind plunged into a whirlpool of thoughts and distant memories; her thoughts became blurry as she struggled to recall her last night on the newly founded cotton farm. Like dark clouds covering the starry sky, the details of that night began to fade into the mist of her memory.

 

To accompany her journey through time, in the midst of this enchanted setting, was Trisha, with memories slowly fading in her mind. The night had witnessed moments filled with emotion and anticipation, but now, in the darkness and silence, only fragments of those ephemeral moments remained. Let's rewind the hourglass, allowing ourselves to immerse in the memories of that tragic night

The air was imbued with the sweet scent of freshly cut grass, carried by a gentle breeze that caressed her face. The moonlight shone brightly, illuminating the landscape with a silvery glow, creating a dreamlike atmosphere.

***

The stars danced in the firmament, twinkling like tiny sparks of hope in the darkness. The soft whisper of the wind through the trees created a symphony of murmurs that enveloped her mind, transporting her to a place of calm and serenity.

 

The sound of crickets filled the air, creating a natural symphony that accompanied the beats of her heart. Moonbeams filtered through the leaves, projecting shadows on the ground, providing a play of lights and shadows that added a magical touch to the surroundings.

 

In the nocturnal stillness, the cotton field transformed into an ocean of soft and delicate balls under the celestial blanket. The pale light of the moon filtered through the vast green leaves, painting silver gleams on the earthy tapestry, drawing a delicate embroidery beyond human capability.

 

The cotton fruits, like silent witnesses of ancestral stories, swayed gracefully to the rhythm of the night breeze. Their soft whispers carried secrets and mysteries that intertwined in the roots of the field. Each plant stood in majestic display, reflecting the solemnity of the night with its dark silhouette, while curious stars observed from above with their celestial brilliance.

 

Near the fields, wooden houses stood, their age manifested in the decay and deterioration surrounding them. Inside, several triceratops slept, or at least attempted to. Among them, the figure of a young triceratops girl stood out.

 

On her face, the deep imprint of loss became evident, carving lines of sadness into the softness that once characterized her features. Her eyes, once bright, were now clouded by the shadow of grief, reflecting an abyss of unfathomable sorrow.

 

The corners of her lips, which used to curve into genuine smiles, now tilted downward, as if gravity itself were pulling joy away from her being. The dark circles, marked by sleepless nights and tears shed in silence, added a dark hue to the canvas of her face. Lettuce lay on a bed next to a wall, her amethyst-colored eyes lost in the void, trying to find solace in sleep and overcome her loss.

 

Outside the grand plantation, a group of five dinosaurs rested, awaiting their next target. Among them, a raptor of obsidian color stood out, with gray in his hair and a prominent scar on his cheek, denoting years of experience in his trade.

 

"Alright, folks," said the obsidian raptor as he pulled out a paper with a pencil portrait of the landlord they called "Red Wings." The drawing depicted a pterosaur with touches of red and orange.

 

"We're looking for this Red Wings," he expressed, showing the drawing to his companions. "We'll enter stealthily, put a bullet between his eyebrows, as Mr. Anderson instructed, and leave without causing more destruction, just taking his savings."

 

One of the group members asked, "Does he have an heir?" to which the obsidian raptor simply shrugged in ignorance.

 

"We don't know, and frankly, we don't care," replied the raptor with indifference. "We're just getting paid for his head. Any questions?"

 

Everyone shook their heads, indicating understanding.

 

"Now, everyone get on the carriage, and remember, no stupid noises," ordered the obsidian raptor as everyone settled inside. The carriage was covered by a white fabric that prevented curious onlookers from seeing inside.

 

The carriage began to move slowly along the path that led to Eric Jones's imposing house. The darkness of the night enveloped the plantation, and only the dim light of the dinosaurs' lamps allowed a glimpse of the path. The obsidian raptor's face 

remained impassive and concentrated, the image of the pterosaur in his mind guiding him on his mission.

 

Finally, the carriage stopped near the main entrance of the luxurious mansion in the middle of those lands. The four dinos stayed inside the carriage, aiming at the back with their rifles, ready for any curious onlookers. The obsidian raptor approached the main door, his scar evident, and knocked on the door determinedly, as if he were a respectable doctor making a nighttime visit.

 

After a few moments of suspense, the door opened slowly, revealing a human servant, dressed quite formally but sleepy and confused. The obsidian raptor, maintaining composure, spoke with a calm and confident voice:

 

"Good evening. I am Dr. King, and I have been urgently called to attend to an important medical matter related to Mr. Jones. I hope not to cause inconvenience." He gave a smile, concealing how every word was a lie from start to finish.

 

The servant, with an expression of confusion, looked at the doctor's carriage and looked back at the mercenary. "Sir, allow me to ask, I don't recall you having an ailment..." The obsidian raptor maintained composure in front of the servant and, with a friendly smile, responded:

 

"I apologize for the confusion, my good man. The situation is a bit delicate, and my call was urgent. Mr. Jones may not be aware of my arrival, but I assure you it is necessary. I would appreciate your understanding."

 

The servant, although still bewildered, nodded and, asking for the raptor's patience, the servant made his way to Mr. Jones's rooms. Meanwhile, in Eric Jones's room, the servant knocked on the door and received an affirmative response.

 

"Yes, yes. Bring him to my study. I'll see what this doctor wants at this late hour."

 

The servant hurriedly returned downstairs and led the obsidian raptor to Mr. Jones's study. Upon arrival, the raptor closed the door behind him. Mr. Jones, dressed in his night robe, looked at the raptor with curiosity.

 

"What's going on here? Why am I being woken up at this hour? Who are you?" he asked impatiently.

 

The obsidian raptor, maintaining his role as a doctor, bowed respectfully and extended his hand. "Good evening, Mr. Jones. I am Dr. King. I apologize for the hour, but I have been urgently called to attend to an important medical matter. I came as quickly as I could. Could we speak in private in your study?"

 

Jones, still confused but intrigued, nodded and led the raptor to his study. Once inside, the raptor closed the door behind him. Jones's study was decorated with polished mahogany furniture, gleaming under the soft gas lamp lighting. The library shelves rose to the ceiling, filled with books bound in leather and ancient artifacts of incalculable value. The scent of leather and old paper wafted in the air, enveloping the room with a sense of erudition and prestige.

 

On the other hand, the other dinosaurs, attentive from the carriage, remained on high alert, awaiting signals from their leader if he needed help.

 

Inside the study, the obsidian raptor waited for Jones to indicate that he could speak. The mission was underway, and tension in Eric Jones's mansion permeated the air.

 

Outside, a foreman was on night watch, the luxuries of being a landowner. The foreman approached the carriage slowly, slightly pushing aside the sheet that served as the entrance to the "medical" carriage, and found the men under the command of the unknown raptor.

 

"What the heck..."

Quickly, one of the men aimed and with a precise shot silenced him, at the cost that now more than ever, almost everyone in those plantations had heard that shot, even Lettuce, who was almost managing to fall asleep, was startled, giving a slight jump out of bed like most of his companions.

 

Mr. Jones, upon hearing the shot, opened his eyes in surprise, alarmed, and headed to the door.

 

"What the hell was that?" He barely put his hand on the doorknob when, in a flash, a revolver, a silent witness to sinister secrets, exhaled its whispers of gunpowder and lead. Three beats, three notes that echoed throughout the mansion, with another one that sounded only in the room, the pterosaur's body falling to the floor.

 

The raptor, with a gaze as sharp as a predator's claws, held his revolver high, demanding answers in the dimness of the study. Meanwhile, the echoes of the battle outside intertwined with the tense atmosphere surrounding the trembling servant.

 

"Where is all this gentleman's money?" the raptor asked with a coldness that cut through the air, pointing to the apparent corpse of the landowner. Outside, the symphony of gunfire continued, like war drums announcing an imminent conflict.

 

The servant, between sobs and stammers, pointed with a trembling hand towards a hidden door in the corner of the study. The raptor, without lowering his weapon, urged the servant to lead him to that underground destination.

 

"I don't have all night!" the raptor exclaimed, squeezing the trigger of his revolver, making the metallic sound resonate in the room. With the threat clear, the servant, still with the gun pressed to his back, guided the mercenary towards the basement.

 

The study door opened, revealing a dark and narrow hallway descending into the bowels of the mansion. The candlelight flickered dimly, creating unsettling shadows on the walls. The raptor closely followed the servant, both descending in a macabre dance towards the treasure lying underground.

 

The stairs creaked under their steps, as if the mansion itself lamented the corruption hidden in its foundations. They reached a metal door with bars that opened into a dark and cold basement. The raptor, with a firm hand, indicated to the servant to open the door. The servant, trembling, complied. The door opened with a metallic groan, revealing an apparently empty basement.

 

"Nothing here," his revolver pointed at the servant. Upon noticing how the steel of that weapon positioned itself at his head, the servant quickly and desperately pointed to a couple of sacks. They both approached, and upon seeing their contents, the raptor couldn't help but smile. "jackpot" he said before taking the bags and placing them on the empty table in the middle of the basement. He looked at the ceiling, a mischievous and dark smile still lingering on his scaly lips.

 

He scattered the money and searched his pockets for something matches. He lit them and threw them onto the bills before the fire consumed all the money. Before the flames took everything, he grabbed a bill and handed it to the servant.

 

"There, as consolation," he said as he exited the basement with a revolver in hand, ready to help his comrades...

 

***

 

Three days had passed since that assault.

 

Morning slowly woke up in the cotton plantation, with the gentle touch of the sun filtering through the green leaves and extending its warm embrace over the damp soil. A light morning dew glistened on the leaves, like liquid diamonds adorning the vast fields. The mansion that could be seen was destroyed due to the fire.

 

There was a group of triceratops, all seated, about 30 of them, and one of them was Lettuce. In front of them was a young pterosaur, identical in colors, receiving a bag full of money.

 

"Well, now all of you belong to him," said the young pterosaur as he pointed to a dark green stegosaurus before withdrawing, leaving only one overseer.

 

All the slaves, astonished by the coldness of the young one, slowly looked at who supposedly was their new master, who came accompanied by several carriages.

 

"Ce fut un plaisir de faire des affaires avec vous! (It was a pleasure doing business with you!)" the stegosaurus would say as he waved to the red pterosaur, who went inside the burned mansion. Then, he would look at his employees, who were the same number as the carriages. "You, get on the carriages and let's go," he said before one of the guards pulled out his whip, positioning himself behind the newly bought slaves, lashing those who lagged behind. Lettuce, in his clumsiness, when he tried to get up, tripped and fell to the ground, receiving a lash for that mistake.

 

"Get up and walk, savage!"

 

And so it began.

 

"Trisha, dear! " the yellowed old woman snapped her fingers in front of the triceratops, bringing her back to reality. The young slave jumped in her seat, as if she had been awakened from a deep sleep, placing a hand over her chest in surprise.

 

"Carrot, don't scare me like that again, please!" exclaimed Trisha, her brow furrowing with concern. The old woman, however, couldn't help but let out a shrewd laugh, playfully caressing the tip of Trisha's truncated horn.

 

"Forgive me, dear. You were looking at that glass quite..." Carrot paused dramatically as she slowly took the glass from Trisha's hands and placed it on an old table, watching her as if she had uncovered an unfathomable mystery.

 

"Drunk, Carrot? Come on!" Trisha exclaimed, laughing at her own surprise and giving the old woman a look between amused and resigned. "I was just thinking about life and stuff, nothing more!"

 

Carrot burst into a sharp laughter, as if she had heard the most ingenious joke in the world, and then winked at Trisha with complicity. The scene, between the scare, the exaggeration, and the laughter.

 

After a while, Trisha got up while yawning.

 

"All right, I think I should go to bed. Are you coming, Carrot?" Seeing the old woman shake her head, Trisha added, "Okay, enjoy the night," and without saying another word, she began her way back to Mr. Mous's house, as her room was downstairs, unlike the others that were upstairs...

 

While the young purple one walked towards the house, something was happening within its walls.

 

In the dimness of his room, a single father and widower lay on the bed, immersed in a profound silence only interrupted by the whisper of his own insecurities. Shadows, accomplices of his loneliness, danced on the walls like specters, enveloping him in a silent melancholy.

 

The echo of the past resonated in his mind, reminding him of the loss of the companionship he used to share with his beloved. The bed became a solitary refuge where the sheets witnessed the absence, while his thoughts, like restless fireflies, illuminated the darkness of his soul, feeling bitter with himself for still not being able to forget her, looking at the painting she did, where the two lovers lay in a romantic embrace.

 

The clock, marking time with an unrelenting tick-tock, became a constant reminder of the responsibility he carried as a single father. The pillow, once shared with laughter and secrets, now absorbed his silent tears as the night slipped through his fingers like a river of solitude.

 

Under the witnessing moon, his mind wove a tapestry of uncertainties: would his love be enough? Could it fill the void left by the departure of the other half of his life? The idea of being alone in the journey of parenthood stole his sleep and bound him to wakefulness, as if the weight of his doubts were an invisible chain.

 

The wind, gentle and melancholic, caressed the window, carrying with it his sighs laden with longing and vigil. The stars, distant flashes of companionship, tried to console his wandering soul, but their gleams only intensified the feeling of loneliness on the vast canvas of the night.

 

Then, with the corner of his eye, he inspected his own room. The moonlight reached to reveal one of the several photos, Pseudon, got out of bed and took the photograph. It was one where he and his two deceased parents were... Pseudon stared at the photo, at his father precisely... a voice, originating from his memories, presented itself… 'Damned boy! Do you think you can dishonor our family in this way?' His father, the man who gave him those lands, who gave him his last name... his home, even his love for literature owed to him, but there was something he didn't want to inherit...

 

Pseudon, wrapped in the softness of his white pajamas, ventured down the hall, where the cold wood embraced the skin of his feet. His steps, barely audible, headed with determination towards a slightly open door, the entrance to his little one's dreamland.

 

At the door, Pseudon stopped, contemplating the peaceful face of his son, a vision of sleeping innocence. The room was steeped in silence, broken only by the child's peaceful breathing. Pseudon's fears, however, echoed like a whisper in the intimate space.

 

"Son... my son..." Pseudon whispered with a voice that floated in the air, imbued with deep melancholy. He loaded his words with the weight of responsibility, as if each syllable were a fragment of his own anguish.

 

His eyes, full of fears and shadows, focused on the loved one resting in the innocence of dreams. The soft light of the moon filtering through the window caressed the room, creating an ethereal atmosphere.

 

"...you don't know how much I'm scared." The confession flowed from Pseudon like a sad song, a melody that only he could hear. He took a moment, an instant in which silence resonated with the fragility of his voice. He sighed, as if the act of exhaling could release part of the burden he carried.

 

" I'm afraid of hurting you, of not being there when you need a hug or advice... like my father "he added, his words flowing like verses of a sad poem. The room, witness to this maternal confession, seemed to hold a collective sigh.

 

He looked down, giving a little laugh while shaking his head. "Although your grandfather, as much harm as he did to me, I don't blame him... he was a man with many problems, the stress of work and the departure of your grandmother marked him quite a bit, that and the Unknow society... this society is..." his gaze fell to the floor, questioning himself why he was talking to a few-months-old baby.

 

Pseudon approached the bed, gently extending a hand over his son's head. Remembering all the times Fátima talked about how she would teach her son the world of painting, tears escaped from his eyes again, moving a few inches away from the crib to cry... when a silhouette entered the room, approached from behind Pseudon with soft and imperceptible footsteps...

 

"Mr. Mous... Are you okay? " Pseudon stopped his silent crying, turning to see who was talking to him... purple, her voice emanating both sweetness and concern, it was Trisha, the triceratops whose eyes, even in the darkness, showed that lavender color in her iris... Pseudon looked down, avoiding eye contact upon realizing who he was talking to.

 

"...Yes, I'm fine, Trisha. Just..." his words slowly faded into nothingness, remaining silent.

 

"My lord... you were crying, something troubles you... Can you tell me? "

 

Pseudon, faced with Trisha's sweet insistence, felt the emotional burden become even heavier. Pseudon retreated like an exhausted navigator until he leaned his back against the wall, sliding down as if trying to find refuge in the cold solidity of the structure. The emotional weight grew denser, like gray clouds darkening the sky of his thoughts.

 

"Fátima... my wife, her absence weighs on me so much. " Pseudon whispered, like a melancholic poet uttering verses of pain. The words flowed from him, weaving a narrative of loss, frustration, self-deprecation for failing, and loneliness. He glanced at the crib with fear, as if his voice could disturb the fragility of the infant's sleep.

 

"I don't even know if I can be the father he needs, I am alone in this. " The words slipped from his lips with the melody of a lonely lament. Tears, like a silent rain, traced paths on his cheeks, marking the sadness that had been hidden behind a facade of strength, looking down.

 

Trisha approached Pseudon, looking at him indecisively, still, she was in her mind as she was just a slave... Slowly, in her mind, she began to reason memories of Pseudon being someone who treated Trisha for who she was... a conscious dino.

 

 'Let her decide, Honey.'

 

 'I do it because you are sentient beings too, with hearts and dreams. You don't deserve that inhumane treatment.'

 

 'Slave or not, you're interested in that story, if you have nothing else to do, you can stay here...'

 

And now, he, her master, needed her to see him not as that, her master, but as an equal. Taking a step forward, she climbed that mental step, standing at the same level as Pseudon.

 

She sat next to Pseudon and put her hand on his shoulder, lightly stroking with her thumb. He lifted his gaze, meeting Trisha's eyes...

 

" No... You are not alone, sir, you have me. I know he's not my son, but..." Trisha spoke sincerely, looking away for a moment before exhaling a thoughtful sigh.

 

" But I can be here, share this burden with you. You are not alone in this, and neither is he. " Her words, charged with the resonance of a connection beyond species, sought to ease that man, despite their differences, knowing the heavy burden that loneliness is.

 

Trisha, recognizing the need of that man, extended her arms delicately, like welcoming branches offering shelter. Pseudon, sensing that silent gesture, felt the weight on his chest begin to yield to the possibility of shared solace.

Their arms met in the space between them, entwining in a slow and meaningful hug.

 

It was as if time faded away, leaving only the stillness of that moment of connection. Their sighs echoed in harmony, like two melodies intertwining in a composition of comfort.

 

Pseudon's closed eyes met Trisha's eyes, and in that silent exchange, they shared more than words. The hardness of Trisha's scales and the coldness resulting from her blood in her hug acted as a balm on Pseudon's emotional wounds.

 

In that embrace, sadness and loneliness dissolved, at least for a moment. It was a silent pact between two beings, a reminder that, even in darkness, companionship and empathy could be lights that illuminated the path. Pseudon allowed himself to immerse in that hug, finding comfort in Trisha's presence, the triceratops whose arms became wings that lifted him for a moment above the storm of his emotions.

 

"Thank you, Trisha..." faintly came from Pseudon's lips. They stayed embraced under the mantle of the night for a while, until gently, Trisha was the one who delicately broke the hug, both looked simultaneously at the baby's crib and stood up, only to leave the baby's room. Once both were out of the newborn's risk of waking up, Pseudo calmly said: "How did you get here?" while raising an eyebrow.

 

Trisha opened her eyes, realizing that she exposed her little secret. She couldn't lie no matter how hard she tried to find a lie that would save her while looking to the side, caressing a side of her hair.

 

"Uh... I'm sorry, I usually come up to see Unknow at night, and when I was coming back from the barn, I stopped by to see how you were, but I heard you talking... I heard everything " she confessed, her lavender eyes showing a mix of apology and vulnerability. It was evident that her initial intention was not to interrupt, but fate led her to witness an intimate moment between Pseudon and his little one.

 

Pseudon just blinked a couple of times confused, thinking in that same instant that Trisha really cared about the baby...

 

"Okay... I didn't know that" while narrowing his eyes...

 

After an awkward silence, both still stood in front of the same door...

 

"Go to sleep Pseudon, you haven't been able to sleep at all, your eyes give it away..." she emphasized on the fires by pointing to her own "try to sleep, okay? "

 

Pseudon nodded, silently grateful for Trisha's concern. They both bid farewell to the baby's door, each taking their own path to rest, carrying with them the fragility of the night.

 

Under the nocturnal mantle, Pseudon withdrew into

 

 the stillness of his room, a sanctuary of shadows where memories and worries danced. The soft murmur of the breeze seeping through the curtains was a serene echo that cradled him in his thoughts.

 

With slow steps, Pseudon headed to his room. The white pajamas, now his second skin, embraced his tired body, and Pseudon lay on the bed, where the moon spilled its silver light on the bed of his concerns.

 

He closed his eyes, not to escape reality, but to face it in the stillness of the night. Images of Fátima, the palpable absence, slid like dancing shadows on the curtain of his thoughts. That discomfort resonated again, but now it was lesser, like a sad melody that resisted fading away.

 

The night's sighs, the secrets whispered by the wind, intertwined with the melody of his thoughts. Pseudon, though not completely afflicted, carried with him the burden of fatherhood still, a persistent shadow in the dimness of his being.

 

The stars watched from above, silent witnesses of a heart struggling to find peace. And while the world rested, Pseudon immersed himself in the embrace of Morpheus, carrying with him the slight discomfort in his soul, hoping that sleep would be a balm for the emotional wounds that still did not heal.

 

The night, with its protective veil, enveloped the dreamer, carrying him into a realm where desires and concerns faded away, at least for a while.

 

Tomorrow would be another day.

[NOTES]
    I suffered like you can't imagine doing this chapter, especially after finishing it. but I hope it is readable for all of you.

    see you next week, I will pay attention to the comments

    also, here, a drawing to use as a reference for both protagonists https://twitter.com/lastKimera/status/1728937260211691654 (kraull did it)