Custodia Umbrarum, 2024
The night was thick, heavy with a silence that slithered into every corner, dragging the city into uneasy sleep. The air reeked of burnt copper and soot, and in the alleyways, shadows gathered—not cast by the moon, but born from the broken pieces of every nightmare that ever found a home in a man’s heart.
She stood in the middle of it all—a woman wrapped in tattered robes, a habit clinging to her like old regret. They called her the Keeper of Shadows, though no one spoke the name aloud. She had no lantern. No torch. Only the glow that leaked from her cracked heart, illuminating the darkness clinging to her like a second skin.
In her arms, she cradled it: a baby, or something that looked like one. Its eyes glimmered wet and ancient, far too knowing for something so small. Tiny fangs jutted from its blackened gums, sharp and relentless, gnawing at the edges of her heart. It fed there, endlessly, as if love were a thing to be consumed, piece by piece. She felt every bite, every tear—but her face stayed smooth, expressionless, like a statue worn down by centuries of rain.
Behind her, the bars held the others—the tall, lean shadows with hollow eyes and crooked grins. They pressed against the cage, whispering to her, voices like dry leaves dragged across stone. They didn’t beg for release. They knew better. Instead, they waited, patient as hunger, watching the woman feed the smallest of them with her own heart, drop by drop.
The stained glass window above her head fractured the dim light, spilling broken patterns across her face. The colors bled into the shadows, wrapping them in beauty they didn’t deserve—but beauty they could never steal for themselves. She cast her light into their darkness, not to redeem them, but to strip them of their power. For what is a shadow that cannot frighten? Just a shape, empty and forgotten.
“You’re not afraid of them,” a voice whispered from the edge of the darkness. A child stood there, small and curious, her wide eyes reflecting the stained glass glow.
“No,” said the Keeper, her voice low and raw. “I’ve seen them. I’ve held them. I know their names.”
The child stepped closer, staring at the thing in the Keeper’s arms. “Does it hurt?”
The Keeper’s smile was thin, sharp as a knife’s edge. “Yes,” she said. “It always does.”
“Then why do you do it?” the child asked, her voice small as dust.
“Because the shadows don't need another jailor,” the Keeper whispered. “They need someone who won’t look away.”
The fire burned behind her, always burning. It never stopped, never gave her rest. But she stood there anyway, unmoving. The baby in her arms shifted, its fanged mouth finding another piece of her heart to tear away, and she let it.
Because someone had to.