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Crystalline silica, a common material that is found in the Earth's crust, consisting of sand, dirt, concrete, and mortar all contain crystalline silica. Ever so common, yet small enough to pass through the never ending turns of time and life. The crystalline silica, able to withstand erosion of nature's course, however is completely vulnerable to certain chemicals that could instantly destroy the material. Although common, it is commonly known to be hazardous to health, entering locations of high exposure repeatedly has the ability to cause certain diseases and health issues.
A representation of time and the shores of a beach during low tide, finely grinded minerals and rocks merged together and packaged together in order to create sand, containing crystalline silica. Though yes, sand sticks to certain locations of the body before being completely removed, it’s able to pass through small tunnels and cracks, easily sweeping through difficult locations and is able to discreetly enter certain locations that are hard to reach, causing them to become unreachable and unstoppable. As time passes, it becomes forgotten, rendered completely useless and becomes completely unknown to the world.
Camilo tends to often relate to certain properties of sand, though he doesn’t gravitate to elaborate on the topic of it, he just does. He flows through the fissures of time, sneaking himself into certain locations and drowning himself underwater, constantly flowing, doing what is required of him by others. He learned to accept that he wouldn’t do things for himself anymore, and he had learned to accept that instantly because the next day he had gained his gift, he worked for others and did their dirty work. Though it generally pissed him off, he had to keep on playing his role for the family, due to the fact that if he didn’t, he would be considered the outcast, he would be forgotten and he wouldn't want to be remembered as a Madrigal. He had to keep his reputation high, he couldn’t make all of his work for nothing, it would be completely pointless and utterly stupid of him.
As a Madrigal, expectations of you were known to be extremely high. Being a member of the family that has magical powers and that were supposed to assist the village that they resided on was something Camilo wasn’t exactly excited about, to say the least. As the shapeshifter of the family, it was his job to become the person in which people can find comfort in. Yes, he did spend time babysitting children as well, but later in the afternoon, adults seeked him out in order for him to shapeshift into a deceased loved one, be it their dead lover or their dead mother, he did it regardless. He did it only to satisfy and give those the comfort that they require, sometimes they’d need a shoulder to weep on, or that they seek to hear them say ‘I love you’ one last time. However, as time passed on, Camilo’s body started to become weaker, he started to struggle with shapeshifting and he required constant breaks. Did he know why? Absolutely not, he also never exactly noticed that it had an impact on his performance when completing chores. He noticed that he had slowly begun to grow weak after shapeshifting, it started from collapsing once he reached his bed to barely being able to make it back to Casita. His body grew sore and he realized that Julieta’s arepa’s with her healing wouldn’t be able to help him, he would have to either wait it out, or that he would continue doing his chores tomorrow completely sore with the possibility of passing out.
At the age of 13, he realized that he despised his gift. He hated the fact that his bones would shuffle and deteriorate depending on who he shifted into, how his limbs would suddenly shrink or suddenly extend then go back to how it usually was, which also felt awfully wrong, and everything felt wrong, really. The feeling of someone else's skin on his body made him shiver, absolutely disgusted by the idea of it.
Yet, he does it everyday, why should he be disgusted? It’s his j̶͚̟͈̗̥̪͙̦̞̺̅̈́̈̓̾̓̚ơ̸̛̘̈́͊̈͐̏̀͆́̉́͌̈́b̸̡͈͈̯̗̦̀̔̌̊̄.
At the age of 15, Camlo forgot what he looked like. At first it was small things he didn’t exactly know that was on his skin, freckles, moles, small stuff like that. However, as months passed, it progressively got worse. He had forgotten what his eye colour was and then he couldn’t recognize his own body. Horrified of his own body, he destroyed all his mirrors leaving what remained of it on the ground, painted with his dried blood and cuts on his fists. From that day onward, he had feared his own body, his own reflection,
he feared ḧ̶̠̟̭̱̻̞͙̅̀̃͐̔̉́̃̏͝i̴̤̣̫̲̻̻̱͇̙̊́͒̏͌̏͛͜ͅṁ̷̛̛̦̬͙͓̮̩̺͑͋̿͂̃̾̾͐͘͜͝͝͠s̸̹̖̻͆͝ͅȩ̷͓̱̯̩̥̎͛͆̒̐̿̏l̴̡̛̮̰̹̖̦̬̤̗̜͓̠͎̹̣̆͌̈́͒̃̽̈́͌̅ḟ̴̛͚̌͋́͗̋̌̃̈́͘͠͠.
Memory fades similarly to erosion, time slowly eating away at your memories as you continue to live on, you reach the peak of life and living, proud of yourself and who you became throughout the process. Yet, you slowly begin to lose those memories, forgetting small details as larger memories then begin to fade from your memory, erasing itself from existence. Your memories slowly trail away from your mind, you lose your sanity, you can no longer tell if she is your sister or if she is a stranger that was randomly inserted into your life. You cannot remember,
y̴̢̦͚̯̱̭̋̈͐ỏ̵̧̢̳̞̲̗̻͙͖̹̯͚͆͒̆̓͒̈̉͂̊̚ų̷̜̥̫̙̀͗ ̸̢̡̢̢̢̛̥͎̙̫͎͉̩̦̥͛̐̋̈͋͋͆̐̔͆̾͝w̴̨̰̟͈̺̲̰͕͉͚̭̤̖̘͖̾̑̕͝i̴̛͕̼͋̎͂̂͋̅̅̈̚͘͠͝͝͝ͅḷ̸̛̛̤̱̖̜͙̭̝̮̬͉̱̘͓̒̒̒͒͗͋̆͒͘̚͘l̷̜͐ ̴̢̻̭͓̄ň̵͕͔͌̃͋͘ő̴̢̢̥̞̺͇̺͚̖̖̗̫͙͑̋̈̎̅͜ͅt̷͙̻͉̤̼̗̱̓̄͊̍̇̍̂̃͑̌͘̚ ̴̗̀r̶͚͔̮̜̳̿̔ȩ̷̨̘̬̤̻̹̰̥͙̱̑͑̄͐̌̈́́̈́̾̿̕͠m̶͙̪͙͖͊̍͊̓́͊̅̂͋̆̅͘ͅě̸̪̒͌̄̈́̏̀͐̇̕͝m̴̤̼̹̻̼͇͚͋b̵̡̭̭̗̟͗̌̐̏͑̈́̒͆̐̋͝ė̵̲̱̿̌̿͘ŗ̴̧̻̖͕̜͈̫̞̮̘̩̠͍̅̑͜.̵̖̣͔̝̻̤̤͕̖͂̏̇̏̋͗̿́͘͝ͅ
14 days before Camilo’s 15th birthday, he scratched his skin, desperate to get rid of the skin that clung to his limbs. He despised the texture of his skin and the feeling of being able to feel everything that had any sort of surface being placed onto his skin made him have the urge to peel his skin off. He could no longer recognize his skin between another’s skin, it disturbed him deeply to a level where he would no longer feel comfortable wearing anything, he was constantly shapeshifting. His limbs would stretch into discomforting locations, causing absolute discomfort in his own body, although it did hurt to continuously shift into other people, he needed something to distract him from his own body,
ḫ̷͈͛̊̄̚͠ȩ̴̖̦͕̲͔͖̖͎̞͗͘͝ ̶̛̝̲̺̜͔̗̬̭͔͍͇̀̅͂̽͜c̶̱̭͚̻̩̗̏̿̒̾͊̇̈́͘͠ͅǫ̴̥̻͙͉̱̖͊̌͑͌̎͊̒͘̚͘͠͝͝ù̸̢̩̳̞̌l̶̪̙̻̮̭̤̗̞͙̣̈́͂͆̆̔̍̐͆̆̄̕ͅd̷̛̰̜̙̼͇̯͎̤̉͌̑̒̒͘͠ņ̸̡̢̩͉̪͕̖͖͙̹͚͌̊̀̅̑́̊̽͆͜͝͠'̸̧͉̤̪̯͓̻̝̦͙̱̺͚͉̈́̄̅̃̿͗̃̈́̚̚ͅt̴͖̲̩͆̔̄̽̂̇̈́̀͌̉ ̸̧̮̞̻̰̻̘̳̯̖͔͆̓̃̑̈̕͠ͅs̷̢̺͙̫̹̪̥̤͓̘͓͈͔̓͌t̵̡̧̼͉̲͚̤̼͍̙̦̮̰͙̓̊͗͆̀̊̌͗̕͘͝a̴̛̘̬̮̮͚̒̓͑͛͐̋̏̑̎̾̚n̷̜̲͚̠͇͂̇̔͒̅̇̃̄͝d̷̥̣̳̦̭̘̹̍͐͂͛̀͆̎̾͊̉̒̕͠͝ͅ ̵̫͗̊̚h̸̡̨̲͔͍͖̩̞͇̗̞̣̪̪̅̇͑͘͜i̵̧̨͖͉̗̖̰͇͇͇̤̔m̶̡̟͕̠̣̗̝̭̲̟̭̙̚͜s̵̢̫̤͆͆̈́̓̂͑͒̓e̶͎̣̬͖͎͊̈l̶̲̦̓̽̒͊̚f̸̛̛̟̟̎͂̐̑̓͋.̷̝̺̯͇͎̻̮͖̻̖͈̉̊̚
4 days after Camilo’s 15th birthday, he had forgotten everything that he used to know about himself. He had forgotten his favourite colour and he also didn’t exactly have a personality. He wasn’t the type of person that would talk about his problems to others willingly, he would vaguely hinted at or he was generally just awfully direct with it, which then leads to him saying that it was just a joke and that it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously. Camilo wasn’t exactly one who seeked comfort after telling someone about his problems. He was more the type of person to just say ‘Just kidding!’ and then walk away. It wasn’t that he despised the comfort, however it was genuinely because he felt as if he shouldn;t be comforted. He felt so undeserving of it, and it felt so wrong to get comforted, not only that, but,
w̷̨̮̭̞͖̘̪͋̉̉̈̋̾̏͊͗́͋̂͘͘h̸̨̛͓̯̺̤̼̮̓̈́̅̽͛̃̓̅̚ŷ̵͓̙̲̻̖͉̑͌̊͜ ̴̧͓͈̞̜͇̀̉̀̄s̵͇̹͉͇̗̳̩͚̰̫͈̽͊̕ȟ̴̙̞̝͛͊̃͒͠͝ơ̵͕̹͎͔̣̓̍͋͑̊̅̉̃̽̉̓̚ụ̴̬̹̦̊͊̿͜l̷̺̞͐̍̄̑̍̒̈́̒̕ḋ̷̛̛̬̎̍̽̔̒̑̎̕͝ ̶̛͈̦̠͓͙͔͚̰͖͎̫͆̑̓̿̆̓̾̎̈́̑͗͘͘ͅa̸̛̤̰̮̘̮̟͇͈̞̬̅̎͋̑͐̏ ̵̛̩̘͊́̆̈́͛̕f̴̢̡͚͉̘̤̜̰̜̞̱̖͉̞͒i̷̖͉̱͇̠̹͚͖̠̲̜̟̼̞̱̔l̴̡̲̲̟̫̫̪̮̜̯͗̈́̔̐̄̔͗͝͠ͅͅţ̸͖̻̮̫͍͖͆̌h̴̛̯̲͙̊̐͛̄̈́̑͆̒̾̕̚͝y̸̢̛͈̻͖͚̺̿̽͗͗̾̕͝ ̷̢͍̠̘̲̺̘̤̯̬͛̔̈ͅc̷̢̪̯̪̟̯̫̙̣͚͎̮̿͒͘o̷̹̙̦͊̔̋̾̐͋͗͛̍̈́̂ņ̴̹̞͈̟̩̦̟̦̄s̸͎͕͖̱̭͇̤̭̦̤̠͔̰͕͚̐ṭ̷̢̦̭̻̭͕͖͕͚̅̔́ę̵͙͉̯̞̭̭̤̝̠̤͓̭̉̄̊̈́͂̒̂̈́͘͝ŗ̷̘̼͙͑̎̄͋̇̿͌̎͝͠ ̴̡̹̱͚̝̼̮̇̔̄͌l̶̡͈̠̬͚̰̠̽͂̅̒͌̋̇̀͜i̵̯̟̯̙͕̫͓͍̦̓͑́̈͆̋̇͒̈́̆͗̽͗̐͜k̶͈̟̦̄̊̎͐̿̄͆̉͐͝ḗ̷̢̙̲̟̝͇̿͆̐̐͒́̾̋͆͐̕ ̴̟̓́̑͘̚ȟ̷̬̗͎͇́̉̋̇̑̏͛̋͐͆̕̚͜i̷̢̧̡̧̛̛̫̳̣̬̣̪͛̈̈́͜ͅͅm̸͉̪̀̑̽̈̅͊̆̈̂́͠͝ ̸͕̪͕̠͎͕̬̩͙̗̅b̵̨̨̧̛̛̘̘̯͉̦̺̗̟͚̟̞͒̾̋̓̆̌͛͛͠͝ẽ̴̹̱͈̇̍̍̊̇̔͌̑̓̒̔͑͝͝ ̷̨͈̲̞̬̬̘͙̬͈͍̠͍̀͜͜č̶̢̅̋̑͑o̶̢̢̨͚̹͍͈̗͐̽͂̽m̶̢̡̮̜͍̬̯̥̮̘̼͉̅͂f̷͓̦̲͕̠͎̞̱̳̙͔̳͛̃͊̊͌̕͝o̶͉͍͉̲͍̫̟̤̺̘͑̔͆̉͋͘̚̚͜͝͝ȓ̴̺̥̩̟͎̗͍̤͙͊̈́͗͠t̸̹̥̲͂e̸͖̤̲̘̞̻͑d̶̩̲͖̪̪̈́̂̌͌̅͒̿̂̚?̸͎̦̺̯̠̭̻̲̘̠͉͇̻̈́̀̍̌̃͝
Sand continues to flow, never ending, like a clock, easily reset. The flow of time can change, interrupted whenever desired by the puppeteer and can be reset. However, sometimes, accidents occur, and time stands frozen, broken, and unchanging, until the pricks of glass and blood soaked floors along with fine crystalline silica beautifully blended with rocks is swept clean, erasing its trail of destruction, of its shatter. Only to be replaced with another, another that was new, that was prettier, that was better. The aftermath of the cuts and injuries tainting their skin, a symbol that destruction had made its way towards the puppeteer, to mock them. Despite their scars, they continue to fiddle with the flow of time, just as they did before.
The day that Mirabel and Abuela fought, Camilo stared at his cousin, words that shouldn’t have been said pierced everyone's hearts. He then sees them, the cracks leading to the end of their gifts. They would then become ordinary people until they all had a plan sorted out for their predicament. He ran for the candle, not because he didn’t want to lose his gift, but because he wasn’t exactly wanting Mirabel, or anyone else really, risking their life over a stupid candle that gave everyone gifts based on their interests. He ran up the stairs, debris started to block the hallway, shifting into a child, barely managing to doge it. Did he find it horrifying? Not exactly, it was generally something soothing. His room would be gone, completely devoid of his mirrors, he wouldn’t have to stare at himself before he went to sleep, he wouldn’t have to see himself.
s̴̘̅̉̋̉́̊͗͆͘͝o̵͖͕͓̗̘͒̃͒̑̂͗̈́̆ͅ ̶̗̫̦̞͓̤̏͒̔̀̽̈͊̈́̃͂̿͘͠ͅẖ̸̼̻͔̣̪̰͙̞̺̰̯̝͇̻͐̒̔̌͋̐e̴͚͈̒̈́̈́͊̈́͂̈̈́ ̵̡̯͎̹̹̩͈͗͒͗͌̂͊͌̈́w̸̧̗̪̮̗̗̜̺͍̦͗͠o̴̯̟͆̿̌͌̌u̴̥̥̥̤̰̥̦͍̦̲͉͎̼͒l̷̢̢̡͓̼̫̤̙̺̖̩͎͔̘̓̆͠d̴̢̡̡̧̬̝͉͔̞̙̳̖̳̺̐̓́̌͗̈́̈́̐͂͜n̷̨̳̥̜̗̬͔̝͊͘'̶̘͌͛̿̽̎̈́̎͊̇̐͝͝t̵̡̢̫͇̲̂̀ ̶̢̢̣̘͎̺̼̦̗̩͖̻̥̒͛̊̈́̿̎͐͑̇͝h̵͔͕̦͈͉͔̺̩͍̥̪̟̠͐̂̿͒̈́̒͘͘ͅạ̸̢̡̖̖̰̣̼̫̩͔̌̅̅̑͗̀̊̿͑͂̕͝ͅv̴̧͚̣̬̬̠̭̝͆͂̊ë̷͚͚̳̤̲̮̜̥̮̭̬͓́͜ ̸̧̨̡̻͚̖̲̠̮̦̭̹͔͔̇̃̉͑̋̌͜ţ̸̳̼͚̞̱͈̇͌̌̈́̿̈́͛̾͆̔̄̓͋̉̚ǫ̸̟̹͕̟̠̯̥̉̓ ̴̢͔͙̟̬̰̳̓͝s̵͚͙̟̼̭̗̠̖̜̟͚̥̭͖͇͌̓̚ȩ̴̢̖̝͉̜̬̞̝̠̫̗͉͕̈́̀̈́͝ė̵̦̱̃͌̂̌͗̂̄̿̐̓͑ ̷̖̣̰͕̭̦̼͇̘̝̌̄̎̈́̓̋͝ą̴̭̪̜̩̘̳̰͉͓̻͕̈̃̐̈̊͆̑͑̚ ̴̨͈̦͍̩͇͖͈̳̰̳̞̳̆̓̈̏͗̓̐̃̓̎̒̕m̴̢͔͓̥͉͔̰̻͂̋͠͝o̵̧̧͔͈͚̭͇͇̩͇̽̍̿̆̇̏n̸̡̙̦̲̼̗̰̮͍͕̣̦͓͔̖̔͂͊̃͗̉̅̕͝ṡ̴̹͎̟̗̅̉͛̋̋̋͋̎͒̚ẗ̴̠͇̩̯͚́̀̎̆̏͐̄͑̃̽͒̕̚ͅe̴̳̘̭̫͇̫͉͇̯͉͔̭̟͆͛̈̕͜r̵̠̫͎̳͓̩̅̋̓.̸̯͉̳̘̩̞̗̈́͋͗͒͝͝
When he reached for the roof, a tile to grab onto, he went back into his body. His arms flailed in the air, trying to reach the roof, however, he was too far away. He missed, the flooring of Casita inching closer. Somehow, out of pure human instinct, he was able to reach for a part of the railings, helping him land softly onto the ground. He stared at the ground, eyes wide with terror, he looked to his hand, desperate to see if he could shapeshift once again. Nothing changed. Camilo looks towards Isabela, who looked just as terrified as him. Casita’s tiles shuffled beneath them, directing them outside of their home. Sound was drowned out, he was exhausted, he felt himself get thrown onto the grass outside of his home, Mirabel was still inside. He heard the screams of her parents begging her to leave the candle and to get out of the house, though a bit muffled, then, the house collapsed, and he heard screams that made his ears ring.
H̶̢̬̳̪̠̜̩͍̳̭̩͊̑͌͒͒͜ȩ̸̝͔̰͚̱͖̙̤̦͗̄̆͛͋̓́̇̀̈͑͂͋͝ ̴͖̤͍̙̠̞̝̩̓̈́͜ͅd̴̢͈̭̺͕̤̈͐͘͜o̷̡̡̙͇̭̘͕̥̫̽̓̋̅̓̈́̉͑̊͗͛̒̄͠e̶̢̢͚͕̻̞̙̫͖̩̼̍͛͗̊ͅs̶̛̥̱̊͠ņ̴͕̺͖̤̍͗'̶̣̮͙̯̩͆̐͛̊̍̾̓͋̈́̅̂͠t̶̠̔̆͝ ̵̧̙̈́̽̌̓͛̕ͅk̶̳̯̼̿̔̏̓ņ̴̤̖̲̳̞͉͎̈́̓͂̐̅̐̿̔͑ȏ̸̧̨̖͔̣̺̩̼͓̙̎̉w̸̘͔͚̫̠̞̪͈̟̔̀̈́͑͒́̕ ̷̢͍̮̥͇i̴̺͚̮̫̮̣̘̩̮̘̘̖̒̽ͅf̴̡͎͇͙̠͍̜̬̄͒͆͒͋͊͑̿̄̚̕͠ ̵̢̞͓͇̳͚̟̯͊̌̔͐͂́̈̓͗̔́̾͠͠ͅh̸̨̞̺̖̬̘̣̞̣͖̼̣̝̖̏̒̆͑͑̕̚ị̸̧͙̲̹̝͕̺͙͇͓͔̇̄͆͊͘͜͝s̴̞͕̙͇̺̜̤̓̃͐̑͗͛̑̽̔̀͒̎͝ ̸̛̠̲͔̞̺̖̪͕̯͊̌͗͊̍̀̂̌͝p̸̡͚̰̭͖̩̬̪͎̄̾̿̊̈́̀̓͋̏̽́́̽̄̚͜͜ͅr̷͔̯͈̺͕̭̻̰̲͍̫̖̜͉̓͛ĭ̵̧̢͙̳͚̞̖̜̖̳̑̌̎̍̃͑m̶̜̺͕̰̬͈̹̗̥̔͆̅̐̉̎̏͛̐̈͜͝ã̸̧̘̟̦̫͍͜'̷̧͎̺̦̗͔̣̤̔ṡ̵͖̝̰̙ ̵͎̭̣͔͕̙͎̞̩̽̅̊̇̓b̵̛̼͉͍͈̻̤̠̆̂̅͑̑̏̈̎̓͑̑͑͝ȯ̷̼̯͚̻͗͂͆͑̔̽̾̌̄͊̋͘ͅd̸̖̤̯͕͚̤͈̟͗̄̈͑͒̉̓͗͘͝ỹ̸͎͎͍̦͇̎͜͠ ̸͓̰̖̘̼̗̯͈̮̥̿̚ͅľ̶͓̘̺̦i̸̜̱͑̿͂͜͜͠e̸̡̠̹̞͇̦͉̙͚̫̯͎͐̒̒́͌̔̇͂̽̍̉̒́͆͜ş̴͎̻̜͇̱͛̍͑̐̈̌͆͋̓͠ ̶͙͉͔̤̩̦̤̼̥͉̟̭̭̍͌̊̑̌̈́͛͂͗̽̈́̂̃̒͘ď̸̢͎̬̣͚͉̽̄̍̂̆̂̕͝͠ë̶̡̛͕̤̩̗̝̱̙̥̙̥̜̣̓̎̃͋͝͠ͅã̴̛̮͕̳̦͈̭̹̦͑̋̌̀̓̆͛̅d̶̨̳̤̤̳͚͈͎̖͕̥̖͎̮̩̍̄̚̚,̷̡̝͍͔̩͎̖͍͉̩̤̼̜̭̃͌͊͐̾͗̃͆̔̿͘͘ ̴̧̢̭͔̝̤̟͇̱̗͒̔̒̿̏̾̈́͛̔̏̓̔͘c̵̨̡̦̱̠̯̖͍̜̫͈̦̬̈́̂̄͑̋̍̊̈́̎͛̓̉͠͠o̷̢̲͂̐v̶̡̢͈̤͚̣̥͖̥̺̄͐̌ȩ̷͕̯̘̱̜͚̩̭͎͉̜̙̹͌̌͗͂̌̾̏͝͠͝r̸̞̓͠e̷̡̙͙͙̥͔̻̊̾̆̉͂͗̓̐̆̍̒̂̚d̶̨̹̝̣̰̬̘͈̦̊̈́̈́ͅͅ ̶̡̙̥̳̮̫͉͕͎̲͐̃̊͊͋͂͌̔͒̌̅́͆ḯ̸̧̛̯̯͖̭̈͒́̋̿̍̂̌͂͆͠ņ̴̡̨͔̯̘̻̺̜̹̥̹͖̂̇̾̌͜͝͝ ̷̧̡̛̮̹̫͍͔͙̫̙̈̆̾̆͜͝ͅd̸̡̛͇͈̻̎͂́̋͊͘ȩ̴̧̛̱̠̌̌̄̔̄͑̈͝b̷̞̙͎̼̩̻̬̰̳̝̟̲̎͐͜ͅi̸̛̝͈̹̯̬̋̇́̓͆̽̿̓̔̇͠ͅs̵͖̳̱̣̦̟̄͒͒͌͂̌͑̈́̒̏́͜͝ ̴̲̭̤̝̠̙̟̇͂̄͑̾͐̎͊͂̐̿͗̏̂͝a̸̢̮̠̝̣̦͍͕̪͋͂̍͌̅̂ͅs̷̢͎͖̠͙̺̘̔̈́̂̃̐̂͗̂̉̆̽̚͝ ̴̠̟͇̟͉̬̅̿̄͆͒͘͜͝͠b̴̧̧̛̛͔̻͚̲̦͍͕̺͓̘̒͐͒̒͑̂͌͛̎͘͘͜͜͝l̵͚̝̃̈̈́̑̈͋̄͝o̸̢̯͓̥̭͖̯̳͓̳̪͌̔̿̒̓̏̆̾ͅȯ̵̯̦̮̤͓̯̩͎͑̎̂̕͝ͅd̴͉̖̟͖̣͔̜̗̼̓͛̏͝ ̴̨̗̪̲̯̓̐͐͜͝ḽ̷̳̮̔̂̃ȩ̴̢̙̝̫̟͓̞̠̻̽̊̈́̍̈́̽̌͌̄̃̅͜͠a̵̢̪̙̯͔͇͚̱̺̺͉̥͗͗̐̊̑̽̈͝k̵̡͙̦͔͔͉͖͈̘̰͓̰̆̂̂͆̋̔͗̅̄̽̕͜͝͠s̶͇̗̝̲̘̪̘̻̻̣̰͎̽̿́͒̉̈́̕͝͠ ̷̨͇̪͍̜͖̄͊̄̓͐͌̓̄̃̃̚̚f̷̧̢͉͇̖͙̖͉̼͍̣̬̺̅̌̌̆̃̏͋͗ͅͅř̴̲̗̄͋͗͂̔̊͒̂̉̏̕͘̚̚͜o̴͓͈̔͌͒̀̋̈́͠͠m̸̛͙̘͈̦͓̘̫̙͚͍̏̚͘ ̷̟͔̰̀ḫ̵͕̥̘͚̖͈͈̯̙̞̝̭̥̅͌̌̌̊̈́̏̈̃̈́̓͒̓ͅẹ̸̯̭͙̤̞̬͂͋́̈̐́̋̏̿͆̅̈̈́͝r̴̨̮͉̐͋͋͐̇͒̄̽̅̈̎̈̚͝ ̷̨̺͇̻̩̹̳̺̞͉͂̊͌͐̒̀̃̒͗̉̏̚b̸͓͔̐̽̉͒̈́͝o̴̙̝͐͂͌͋d̵͎̯͕̟͚̣̤̯̻̞̗̭̿̈́̓̊̏̋͠ͅy̵̢̛̫̟̠̦̹͇͍̭̮̬͚̝̝͒͐̃́̎̑͋̎̊̋͑͘͝ͅ.̷̦̤̥̅
A day after Casita fell, Camilo realized he was nobody without his gift.
Camilo had realized that day, he had lost himself in the sands of time, soon to be forgotten about.