Prologue
288 Words
Whispered the Grave, we had an endless array of tales, bedtime stories... Legends on the tip of our tongues,
illuminated by the flickering candlelight. The most well-known was the tale
of the tear-maker.
It spoke of a distant, remote place...
A world where no one could cry, and people lived with empty souls, devoid of emotions. But hidden from everyone, in its immense solitude, there was a little man dressed in shadows. A solitary, pale, hunched figure with eyes as clear as glass, capable of crafting tears of crystal.
People would come to his house and ask to be able to cry, to experience a hint of feeling, because in tears, love and the most compassionate of farewells hide. They are the most intimate extension of the soul, that which, more than joy or happiness, makes one truly feel human.
And the craftsman would appease them...
He would embed in people's eyes his tears, containing all that they held, and that was what people cried: anger, despair, pain, and anguish.
They were rending passions, disillusionment, and tears, tears, tears. The craftsman infected a pure world, dyeing it with the most intimate feelings and Exhausting ones.
"Remember: you cannot lie to the tear-maker," they would tell us at the end of the tale.
They would tell us this to teach us that all children can be good, that they should be good, because no one is born bad. It is not in our nature.
But in my case...
In my case, it was not like that.
For me, it was not just a simple legend.
He did not dress in shadows. He was not a pale, hunched figure with eyes as clear as glass.
No.
I knew the tear-maker.
- Writer
