They used to say that the wind speaks at night...

And that the trees whisper the names of those who have been gone for a long time.

In our village, Filora, no one likes to talk about "that house"... the house at the edge of the forest, behind the abandoned field, where no one dares to go near.

My grandmother says the light there is not like the moonlight...

And that those who stare at it for too long forget their name.

But I’ve heard them, the older children, whispering in corners about a rumor.

A very strange rumor... no one knows who started it.

They say there’s a key buried in that land, a key that only those who have lost something precious can see...

I don’t know if the rumor is true.

But... on some nights, I hear someone calling my name from there.

A voice that sounds like mine... but it’s not me.