There Is No Way Out. Andrew Zolt

A farewell. Maybe both. The cave held its breath.

      And then… the drop fell.

      In that very moment, Isobel died. Without a scream. Without a sound. She simply never finished her last breath. Her eyes remained open. Staring – not at the goddess, but through her.

      Azem bowed low.

      ***

      And that night, the forest was silent. In the morning, the town awoke to quiet. No voices. No names. Only the wind.

      For the first time in many weeks, people stepped out of their homes. The forest was no longer watching. The children laughed again.

      Caleb learned everything when it was already too late. He vowed to take revenge on the one who had taken the life of his beloved.

      He brought fire. He brought an axe.

      When he saw the statue, a mad rage consumed him. He screamed. Until his voice broke.

      Then he rushed forward. He struck the statue with the axe. Again. And again. He hurled the axe at the goddess’s head, tried to shatter her tongue. Tried to undo death.

      The last thing Caleb saw was a second drop of blood rolling down Humauatl’s tongue. It fell… right onto him.

      A second later, he fell dead. Mouth open. Eyes wide. His skin pale as chalk.

      The choir vanished. Azem was gone too.

      A plaque was hung on the school wall in memory of Isobel. People spoke of her in whispers. They called her the Savior.

      Fear faded. Laughter returned to the homes. Children were born.

      And a year later, somewhere far away… in another quiet town… the trees began to hum a low, sweet lullaby. In children’s voices. And one night, exactly at 3:00 a.m., another name was called.

      They Wanted to Die Beautifully

      At the edge of the world, far from the eyes of civilization, in a desolate coastal land hemmed by black cliffs, stood a castle. Majestic, ancient, as if grown from the earth itself, it towered over the sea, guarding its dark secret.

      Here lived Count Alberto – a man whose name appeared in no registry, whose blood was as old as the stones beneath his feet.

      His castle was the last stop for those who no longer wished to live. His services were known only to those who sought not merely death, but a beautiful death – a ceremonial departure, steeped in theatrical grandeur.

      Clients paid outrageous sums to die exactly as they dreamed: some in the passionate embrace of a young lover, others at a royal ball before their beheading, or amidst roaring flames and the solemn chant of monks.

      Count Alberto promised to fulfill even the most extravagant desires of those determined to leave this world.

      Everyone had their reasons: some suffered from incurable illness; others, marked by a mafia sentence, sought to control their own end; some were simply weary of life, disappointed, disillusioned. And perhaps a few were simply mad.

      The Count didn’t care. He was simply fulfilling their wish – their wish to die.

      ***

      One evening, as the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the sea glowed with copper fire, a sleek car pulled up to the castle gates.

      Out stepped Madame Letitia.

      She wore a long silk cloak trimmed with fur, dark sunglasses shielding her eyes even as night descended. Between her fingers – a slender, elegant cigarette holder.

      She gazed up at the castle and smiled. It was exactly as she had envisioned it in her dreams.

      Count Alberto greeted her. Tall. Thin. Clad in a long black cloak.

      His face seemed carved from stone. And in his eyes – dark, endless depths.

      He gave a slight bow.

      “Madame Letitia,” he said quietly. “You’ve arrived.”

      “Yes, Count,” she replied calmly. “And I hope… not too late.”

      She extended her hand, and he brushed his lips lightly across her fingers.

      “Allow me to escort you.”

      The castle welcomed them with the whispers of ancient tapestries, the creak of old floorboards, the crackle of fire in the hearth.

      In the hall stood statues – pale, faceless, gazing inward, trapped in eternal thought.

      Portraits hung along the walls – faces long unclaimed by the living.

      The Count led Madame Letitia to a small sitting room, where a decanter of wine awaited on a table – deep, ruby-red, like liquid velvet, like blood.

      He filled their glasses.

      She slipped off her cloak.

      Beneath it, a dark gown with a plunging neckline. Her neck shimmered, pearly and smooth.

      “Are you certain?” the Count asked, looking her straight in the eye.

      “I’m tired,” Letitia said, sipping the wine. “Life has grown heavy… like this night. I’ve lived too many lives in one. I’m tired of wearing masks, tired of playing roles.”

      She turned toward the fire.

      “I want… to die beautifully.”

      “Beautifully?” he asked softly.

      “Yes. I want my death… to be a performance.”

      The Count nodded.

      “Tell me more.”

      Letitia leaned back in the chair, exhaling smoke.

      “I dream of it… like in old romances. A young lover’s embrace. Together we dissolve into the night. And as dawn breaks… he strangles me in my sleep.”

      She smiled faintly.

      “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

      The Count inclined his head.

      “Very beautiful.”

      “I want to die like an actress on stage. Believing, until the end, that it’s all just a game. That my final role is… my best.”

      Her gaze held his.

      In her eyes – a tiredness, the weariness of a doll who knows she will never be played with again.

      “I can arrange it,” the Count said, rising. “Allow me… to introduce those who will fulfill your desire.”

      He clapped his hands.

      A door opened.

      Four young men entered. Tall. Handsome.

      Dressed in sleek black silk shirts. Their movements graceful, their faces still.

      They stood before Letitia, their gazes fixed ahead.

      “These are my… actors,” the Count said, a thin smile curving his lips.

      Letitia stood. Stepped closer. Her gaze moved slowly over them.

      “They’re beautiful,” she murmured.

      She traced a finger along the cheek of one.

      “This one,” she pointed to the youngest. “I want him to lead me into my final night.”

      The young man gave a slight bow.

      The Count nodded quietly.

      “Everything shall be as you wish, madame.”

      He gestured.

      The young man extended his hand. Letitia placed hers in his. Her fingers trembled.

      “Take madame to her chamber,” the Count said softly.

      And