🌿Chapter VIII — The Wheel of Broken Dreams🌿

"What stops for the world continues to turn in memory."

At the edge of the large body of water, where the evening light ignites the tall grass and the roots seem to want to emerge from the earth to breathe, stands an ancient wheel. It hasn't turned for a long time. The wood, swollen with humidity and cracked by the years, sometimes creaks in the silence. But even motionless, it imposes its presence, as if it still carries within it the memory of the movement of the waters.

The fishermen who pass along this path often stop for a few moments. Some see it as a remnant of their work, others a relic left by those who inhabited the marsh before the mist took over. For visitors, it becomes a landmark, a sign that they are not completely lost in this universe of shifting reflections.

At nightfall, the sun sets over the stagnant waters, giving them the gleam of liquid metal. The shadow of the wheel stretches across the surface, breaking in the ripples of the waves, and all around the reeds rustle like secret voices. The wind carries with it the scents of seaweed, wet earth, and grass dried by the heat of the day.

There is something peaceful about this place, almost welcoming. But this peace is deceptive: underwater, the mud holds you back, the roots become tangled, and those who venture too far risk getting lost. Yet the birds see no danger. Ibises, gulls, and herons come to land there, dipping their beaks into the dark water, leaving with a flash of silver in their beaks. Their flight punctuates the twilight, and their presence reminds us that even in the heart of silence, life continues to circulate.

The elders say that the wheel is not truly still. That on certain nights, when the moon is reflected in the water and the mist dances above the surface, it still turns, slowly, imperceptibly. Not to grind the grain or guide the water, but to mark the passage of time—the time of the marsh, which is not that of men.

And sometimes, those who come to sit by this water are lucky enough to glimpse the Son of the Marsh. He appears without warning, as if he had always stood there, between the golden grasses and the dark water. He does not carry the lantern—for it rests on his parents' grave—but he carries in his eyes the light of lost souls. He does not speak to everyone. Only to those who need it, to those whose hearts cry out for a word or a soothing silence. He is the guardian of the marshes, but even more: the healer of souls.

Thus, this corner where the light caresses the water and the grass, where the wheel seems to wait for a breath that will never come, has become a place of passage. A place where one stops, without really knowing why. Perhaps to listen to the lapping of the water, perhaps to rediscover a memory that is not one's own.

For in Lost Swamp, even sleeping things continue to speak. And sometimes, they lend their voices to the Son of the Swamp.