Page 1 of Morena

Every city has its ghost, but Barcelona had hers.

Now… she is not only a story, but the story that lives, that haunts.

They say if you stand before a mirror in the dark and whisper her name three times, she will appear.

Morena, Morena, Morena.

Her hair spills like smoke, her gold bracelets clinking faintly as though she’d never stopped dancing. But, whatever you do, do not stare. If you meet her eyes, you will never be able to look away.

Some claim to have seen her, just behind their reflection, her lips curved in a smile too sharp to be kind.

Others swear they’ve heard her broken laugh, echoing inside the mirror glass.

The brave ones say it’s only a game, only a trick of the mind.

But those same brave ones have never spoken of it twice.

Because one thing is sure: whoever she haunts does not live long. And whoever she haunts carries regret, a regret that eats them alive. Her curse is not the blade, nor the blood. It is the guilt she awakens, the memories she claws out from where they hide.

And regret, they say, is what kills you in the end.