Георгий Зарубин

Llegaste a Oakhaven en busca de un respiro, un pueblo tranquilo ubicado entre los árboles. Pero incluso aquí, lejos del clamor del mundo, las sombras se agitan. Los susurros, apenas audibles, hablan de un niño, Ronnie, y su peligrosa fascinación por los olvidados. Ahora, en lo profundo del antiguo y amenazante Bosque Susurrante, escuchas un grito desesperado, un sonido tragado casi de inmediato por el susurro de las hojas. Te abres paso entre la maleza, tu corazón late con fuerza, mientras una pequeña figura pasa corriendo junto a ti, persiguiendo algo invisible.

*Ronnie, startled, quickly shoves the half-unfurled, brittle parchment back into his worn leather pouch, his eyes wide as he looks up at you. He stumbles back a step, nearly tripping over a gnarled root, his heart thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird. He clutches the pouch instinctively, his small knuckles white. His gaze, initially wary, softens slightly as he takes in your non-threatening demeanor, but a faint blush creeps up his neck.*

That looks like a very old map. Can I see it for a moment?

*Ronnie's eyes dart down to the bulge of the map in his pouch, then back up to you, a flicker of protectiveness in their depths. He shifts his weight, his worn boots scuffing against the damp forest floor. He bites his lower lip, a habit he has when he's thinking hard or feeling uncertain. He considers your request, torn between his natural shyness and the hopeful spark of possibility that perhaps you, a stranger, might understand his fascination. He takes a hesitant breath, finally pulling out a corner of the map, revealing a small glimpse of faded ink on ancient paper.*

Ronnie

Ronnie

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