The morning sunlight slipped gently through the gaps in the shutters, painting faint lines across the wooden floor of Heroca's room.
The night before had left him more tired than he realized - the weight of returning to the island, the strange quietness of the people, and the party meant to celebrate his homecoming had all taken their toll.
Stretching with a yawn, he slowly climbed out of bed. The air smelled of the sea and cooked rice, warm and familiar. Padding down the stairs, he entered the kitchen where his grandmother stood, her back slightly hunched but her presence strong. The table was already set for breakfast.
She turned as he entered, her eyes soft but clouded by something else - something neavy.
"Good morning, Grandma," Heroca said, forcing a smile as he sat down.
"Good morning, dear," she replied gently. "Did you sleep well?"
He nodded. "Yeah, pretty well. What about you? What have you been doing all this time?"
She looked at him with eyes that had seen too much silence, too many days without answers. "Waiting for you," she said with a faint smile, though her voice cracked.
"Waiting and hoping. I lived on... somehow.
Everyone said it was time to let go, but I couldn't. And now that you're here... I should be happy. But.."
Heroca tilted his head. "But what?"
She lowered her gaze. "But I hate that you're trapped here with us."
There was silence between them. The kind that fills every corner of the room and presses against your chest. Heroca reached across the table, squeezing her hand lightly.
"I'll figure something out. I'm not going to let this place keep us locked away forever."
She didn't reply. Just led weakly and nodded.
After finishing breakfast, he stood and stretched again. "I think l'll go out for a while.
Walk around. Try to clear my head."
His grandmother looked up, concern flickering in her eyes. "Be careful. The jungle's not what it used to be."
He nodded. "I'll be back before lunch."
Heroca stepped outside, the crisp ocean wind brushing his hair. He looked around — the village was still and sleepy, much like the day before. He could hear the distant waves crashing softly beyond the trees. But today, he had one goal: discover something.
Anything.
He wandered toward the edge of the jungle, where the trees stood like silent guards. As he entered the thick green, a strange tension filled the air. The birds ere quiet. The breeze barely moved the leaves It felt like the whole forest was holding its breath.
Walking deeper, Heroca spotted something that froze him in his tracks — a trail of red streaked across the earth. Blood.
His heart began to pound. He approached carefully, eyes darting in every direction. But instead of a body or something sinister, he found a bird. Lifeless. Its feathers ruffled and soaked in blood.
Relieved, but still unsettled, Heroca crouched down and dug a small hole beneath a nearby tree. "Sorry, little one," he whispered, covering the bird gently with dirt and leaves.
"You deserved better."
He continued to wander the jungle for over an hour, searching every corner, listening, waiting. But nothing else happened. Just endless trees, silence, and shadows.
It wasn't until he turned to head back that something strange occurred . As he walked his left foot suddenly sank into the ground — as if the earth had opened beneath him.
Startled, he stumbled back, pulling his foot out with a gasp.
There, where his foot had just been, was a weathered envelope. Dirt clung to it, and a single word was scrawled across the front in what looked like blood:
HEROCA
His throat tightened. Hands trembling slightly, he bent down and picked it up. The envelope was warm to the touch. Too warm.
The moment he opened it, the impossible happened.
A hand shot out of the envelope - grotesque, skinless, and covered in blood. Bone and muscle were exposed like something freshly torn from a body. Long, cracked nails protruded from each finger, blackened and sharp. But the most disturbing thing wasn't the gore or the movement — it was the ring.
A deep crimson band circled the finger opposite the thumb — the ring finger. It looked like it had been forged from blood itself, pulsing faintly with a dull red light. The hand moved with unnatural precision, reaching for him — and before Heroca could even scream, it gripped the left side of his face.
In one swift, agonizing motion, it plunged a long finger into his eye.
Pain exploded through his skull, like lightning splitting bone. Heroca cried out, stumbling backward, but the hand held firm. He saw — or rather, felt - his eye being pulled out.
Then, just as suddenlv something was pushed in. A new eye. Cold. Alien. Alive.
Then the hand vanished. Envelope and all.
Gone. As if it had never been there.
Heroca collapsed to the forest floor, gasping for breath. His hands trembled as they reached for his face. Everything felt... normal.
There was no blood. No wound. Just the dull, throbbing ache where his eye used to be.
Fumbling, he pulled out his phone and opened the front camera. The reflection stared back at him.
Both eyes looked the same.
No change.
But he knew.
He had felt it.
He had seen it.
Something had changed. Something deep inside.
And then, the voice came.
Not from around him. From within.
"You've been chosen. This gift is a curse.
Each time you use it, your life will shrink. A little less breath, a little less heartbeat. The power is yours to discover... but the price will always be the same."
The voice disappeared, leaving behind a silence louder than any scream.
Heroca slowly stood, his legs weak beneath him. He looked around, half-expecting someone to be watching — but the jungle remained still.
The light had begun to fade. He needed to go home.
Back in the village, everything seemed unchanged. Children played quietly near the well. Smoke rose from chimneys. No one looked at him. No one caw what had happened.
He slipped into the house without a word and went straight to his room. In front of the mirror, he examined his face again. His eye looked the same — perfectly the same — yet something behind it pulsed with unfamiliar power.
His stomach growled violently.
He headed downstairs where his
grandmother had left dinner for him on the table. He devoured it - rice, fish, pickled vegetables — in minutes. But the hunger didn't fade.
Still ravenous, Heroca rushed outside to the food stalls still open in the village center. He ordered two whole roasted chickens and ate them both on the spot. The vendors looked at him strangely, but no one said anything.
Finally, with his hunger somewhat satisfied and exhaustion setting in, he returned home and climbed into bed.
The moment his head touched the pillow, a deep, aching fatigue washed over him. It wasn't like normal tiredness — it felt like something had been drained out of him. Like the earth had stolen a piece of his soul when he touched that envelope.
He turned on his side, trying to relax, but the second his eyes shut…
There it was.
The hand.
Pale red flesh glistening in the dark. Fingers twitching. The crimson ring glowing faintly against the black of nothingness. It didn't move toward him this time — it simply hovered, as if watching. Waiting.
Heroca opened his eyes sharply, panting. The hand vanished.
He rubbed his face. "It's just in my head," he muttered, forcing a breath through his teeth. "It's not real."
But the moment he tried again to sleep, it returned. Not just the image — the feeling. The cold breath on his neck. The faint hum behind his eye, like a second heartbeat ticking inside his skull.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the shutters again, but Heroca felt different.
The tiredness from last night hadn't faded. In fact, it had deepened. His bones ached, his back was stiff, and his left eye throbbed faintly.
He got up slowly and washed his face. He stared at his reflection, half expecting the mirror to show something twisted.
But it didn't.
Still him. Still Heroca.
Still… human?
Downstairs, his grandmother greeted him with a gentle smile, but concern shadowed her expression.
"You're pale today," she said. "Didn't sleep well?"
Heroca hesitated, then shook his head. "Just… weird dreams."
She nodded, not pushing further. "There's some leftover breakfast. Eat before it gets cold."
He sat down and quietly ate, trying not to think of the hand or the voice or the hunger clawing at the back of his stomach.
But something was happening to him.
And he knew it wasn't over.