I sigh, try again, take hold of the handle and, this time, I turn it.

Inside, the house is dim, touched only by a pale light slipping in through the windows and drawing soft lines across the floor.

Dust floats in the air. I move closer and feel a shiver.

It isn’t dust.

It’s letters.

Tiny letters, loose and hanging in the air, as if the house were breathing out sentences someone forgot to finish.

I walk up the stairs slowly, my hand sliding along the mahogany banister. The wood creaks beneath my steps. But it isn’t wood I hear, it’s the dry sound of crumpled pages under the weight of my body.

When I reach the landing, the light fades and everything falls into shadow. In the silence, a door creaks open.

This time, I don’t hesitate.

I take a deep breath and walk towards it.

The room is filled with loose pages scattered across the floor and stuck to the walls, as if someone had thrown them there without looking back.

I pick one up. I recognise the first line before I finish reading it.

The sentence stops exactly where it should have carried on.

I left it like that.

I pick up another. I abandoned this one before the final full stop.

Another.

And another.

And another.

The air grows thick.

It isn’t only that I left them unfinished.

It’s the fear that perhaps I never knew how to finish them at all.

I leave the room with the pressure tightening in my chest.

The next door stands half open. A small golden light spills out from inside.

But the tiredness catches up with me, and I sink down onto the floor.

The door opens a little wider.

Impatient.

Gathering the last thread of strength, I step inside.

The golden light wraps around everything and gives the air an old, quiet stillness.

Shelves filled with books cover the walls. I run my fingers along the spines and take one down.

Nostalgia.

Another.

Last Night I Dreamt of You.

The Return.

Anxiety.

They aren’t drafts.

They weren’t abandoned.

I finished them.

The door closes behind me. When I look up, the final door is already wide open.

This time, I walk in without doubt.

In the centre of the room stands a wooden desk. Its surface is covered with words carved into it. I trace them with my fingers. I recognise them before I allow myself to admit they are mine.

A typewriter rests on the desk.

I sigh.

I sit down.

I place my hands on the keys.

And this time, I don’t put them away.

Outside, the rain falls heavily, hitting the windows as if it wants to come in. I take the letter out just as a lightning bolt lights up the room, once dark, with an electric silver glow.

As if nature itself was warning me.

Danger.

I unfold the letter and begin to read.
The voice writing to me is polite, elegant, almost flawless. And yet, between those carefully chosen words, I sense something violent underneath.

Because sometimes violence does not arrive as physical blows, but as words disguised as kindness.

As promises that were never meant to be kept.

As someone who convinces you that what you feel is not real, that you are exaggerating, that you are wrong.

Midnight Covenant draws on the dark legacy of the Dracula myth and rewrites it from a place that is painfully familiar: control, manipulation, and gaslighting hidden behind false devotion.

The story begins with Mina, a young woman who discovers, at her father’s funeral, that he sold her to a count who lives in the Carpathian Mountains. After saying goodbye to her best friend, Lucy, she sets out on a journey that lasts several days, accompanied by Jonathan.

When they arrive in the town at the edge of the mountains, Mina notices the villagers’ fear simply by asking for directions to the count’s castle. Although Jonathan assumes their fear comes from the wolves, she cannot shake a bad feeling — one that only grows stronger when they reach her new home.

Count Dracula’s castle is a labyrinth where Mina is forbidden to wander on her own. She is surprised to find that such a vast place is inhabited only by Sofia, the servant, and Dracula himself. After a rushed wedding and the purchase of a mansion in London, Jonathan leaves the castle, leaving Mina alone with her new husband and the woman who serves him.

The count appears kind, confident, and irresistibly attractive. Slowly, Mina begins to develop feelings for him. However, at a slow and calculated pace, she comes to understand that she has married the devil himself.

Amelia West creates a gloomy, deeply gothic atmosphere through careful and vivid descriptions. The mystery unfolds slowly, allowing the answers to surface only in the final chapters.

In this case, I believe the slow pace serves a clear purpose: to show the different stages of abuse.

It all begins as an omen. A warning without proof, an intuition Mina cannot fully explain. Then comes the attraction to a man who is attentive, flattering, and seemingly safe.

For a while, everything appears to be fine. Until one day, without warning, that kind man says or does something that unsettles her. Then guilt appears. Excessive, irrational guilt that convinces her she has done something wrong, that she is the one who caused his anger.

The confusion deepens when the gentleman disappears and frustration grows in silence. Until one day, he returns as if nothing has happened. And Mina feels grateful, convinced that whatever she did has been forgotten.

In one of the most dangerous moments, the count insists that everything happened in her head. Increasingly confused, Mina begins to doubt her own perception, yet chooses to trust the person who is supposed to love her.

There is even a revealing scene in which Mina meets Van Helsing, who offers her a way out, a chance to escape the nightmare. She refuses. Not because the danger is not real, but because she still believes it is her duty to stay with her husband and try to make sense of the confusion.

I read the letter again in my hands.
I remember that feeling once more.
That sense of danger that does not always come with proof, but that the body recognises before the mind does.

This Dracula retelling does not only rewrite a classic myth — it rewrites a story many of us have lived.

Because sometimes, the monster does not need fangs.
It only needs you to stop trusting yourself.

I step into a room that looks like a library. Dozens of shelves rise above me, disappearing into the dim light. Each section is marked with small labels: Marta, Dad, Willesden Lane.

—What is all this? —I ask.

—What you wanted. To go back to the past —she explains.

Among so many wooden shelves, she looks even smaller. Her white hair, dulled by the soft light, almost blends into the dust floating in the air.

—Welcome to the library of memories.

I wander down the aisle marked with the name Marta and pick up a book at random. It is old, with half-torn pages, and surprisingly short. On the cover, the title reads: Getting angry over whose turn it was to jump rope. I smile. A childhood memory.

I keep walking to the end of the aisle and pick up another volume. This one is different: it looks new, untouched, and much longer than the previous one. The title says: Baby shower. A memory from just a month ago.

—Books, like memories, age over time —Mrs Prince explains, reading my thoughts.

I keep walking through the aisles and stop in front of the section marked Dad. I hesitate. I don’t know if I’m ready, and, like so many other times, I decide to come back to him when I am.

—Time is running out. Which moment of your life would you like to return to? —Mrs Prince urges me.

Then I see the sign that says Tomás. I walk towards it, determined. It is a much shorter aisle than the others, and I can’t help thinking about how little time we actually shared.

At the beginning of the aisle, the books still keep their bright colours. Further along, the tones fade. They haven’t aged: they have grown sad.

I take the last book, a dull black one. On the cover, the title reads: The final decision.

—Are you sure? —the woman warns me—. You can also choose a happy memory.

But I’ve already made my decision. I want to return to the turning point. To the moment that could have completely changed my life, if I had been a little braver.

—Open the book.

I sigh. With a trembling hand, I begin to read the first page.

It was June, and it was far too hot for London. We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables at The Cozy Cup.

—I’m going home —he said.

I looked up and watched him for a few seconds. His messy black hair, hazel eyes, long face, round nose, the moustache I hated so much. He was looking at the people walking past us, avoiding my eyes.

—Why? —I asked in a thin voice.

—I’ve been offered a good job opportunity, and I’m tired of working in a café —he replied, still not looking at me.

I wanted to ask him to look at me. I wanted to tell him that he hadn’t even tried to find something better. I wanted to shout at him to stay.

But I stayed silent, frozen.

—You can come and visit me whenever you want —he said at last.

That’s when I realised I knew nothing about his life in Italy. Who his friends were, what his parents did, how he spent his time. I only knew him here. His version in a foreign city, without friends or family. I wondered if he would be the same at home, surrounded by people he felt safe with.

In that moment, my body trembled, as if reality had suddenly struck me.
I knew it was the end.

I close the book and stay silent for a few minutes. I wonder what would have happened if, that day, I had been a little braver. If all he needed to stay was for me to ask him.

—It’s time to go back —Mrs Prince’s voice reaches me from far away.

I look at the book for a moment before putting it back in its place.
I think about everything I didn’t say, everything I didn’t ask.

Some memories don’t grow sad with time: they are born that way.

And you, which book would you choose?

I press the switch and the spotlights blind me for a moment. When my eyes adjust, the bar appears in front of me. Exactly the same as back then.

Now there is no one. Everything is quiet, as if the place also misses something.

I have come back to remember what once was.

Little by little, like a distant whisper, I begin to feel the music, the lights, the laughter, the conversations.
I feel other bodies brushing against my arms, moving to the rhythm of the night.

And, at last, I return to the night I didn’t know would change me forever.

I raise my arms as I make my way to the bar. I feel my friend’s hand on my back, so she doesn’t get lost, or so I don’t, in the middle of so many people.

We wait our turn and move to the beat of a song we don’t understand.

“Now we’re going to ask for a song in Spanish” I say to Alba.

“Yes, but not Danza Kuduro.”

I smile. I am young. I’ve just finished work. I live in a country where nobody knows me, nobody judges me and, for the first time in my life, I feel free.

The couple in front of us leaves and I rest my hands on the bar, covered in glasses. My fingers get stuck on the marble for a moment, but I don’t mind.

“What can I get you?”

I look up. I meet a pair of blue eyes. Big. Round. Full of life.

And something inside me shifts.

The way he looks at me draws me in.
I don’t know why, but I have this strange feeling that we already know each other.

“Two rum and cola” says Alba.

The boy turns to prepare the drinks and I watch him talk to another bartender. I can’t stop thinking that there’s something about him that feels familiar.

He comes back, smiles, and pours cola from a tap into our tiny glasses.

“Here you go.”

We take our drinks and get ready to leave.

“Excuse me!”

I am certain he is talking to me.

I turn around.

“Do we know each other?” he asks.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

Maybe we had never seen each other in this life before,
but something in me knows this is not the first time we recognise each other.

Some souls don’t arrive for the first time.
They just come back.

I breathe.

The images of bodies dancing slowly fade away.
The music fades too, until only a distant echo remains.

I am alone again.

Just a few weeks ago, I felt as if the world was rising around me like skyscrapers. The shadows kept growing upwards, and I stayed down below, small and insignificant, trapped between walls too tall to let the light through. Life turned into darkness.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and there wasn’t any particular reason for it. Maybe it was tiredness, or that desire to change my life without knowing where to start. I felt those skyscrapers as a labyrinth that, to be honest, I still haven’t managed to get out of.

January is linked to the god Janus, the god of beginnings and new starts.

January is that small ray of light that slips between the skyscrapers, the one that allows me to glimpse the path inside that labyrinth.

This year I don’t have any new resolutions, because they’re the same ones I had last year. But if I had to ask for anything, it would be clarity and a thread to help me make my way through it.

Clarity and a thread.
And the patience to follow it.

I still don’t know where that thread leads. But today, at least, I can see it.

And you — what do you ask of January?

Perhaps it moved me so much because it took me back to those afternoons at my grandparents’ house: me sitting on the sofa, eating a chocolate sandwich with olive oil, listening to my grandfather invent riddles and maths problems. I must have been six or seven years old, and without knowing it, I was the happiest girl in the world.

Perhaps also because my grandfather suffered from the same illness, and because while reading about Kaede, I felt that her personality was quite similar to mine. At times, I could recognise myself in her.

The book is divided into five mysteries that become darker as the story goes on.

In the first one, Kaede, a twenty-seven-year-old teacher, is invited by Iwata, a colleague from work, to have dinner with one of his friends: Shiki, a man who is carrying an unsolved mystery.

One night, while having dinner at a restaurant with his theatre company, Shiki goes to the toilet and finds it locked. When he looks inside, he discovers the body of a man who has been stabbed. No one has gone in or out, and the murder happened just a few minutes earlier.

Faced with an apparently impossible mystery, Kaede knows there is only one person who can find an answer: her grandfather, Himonya-san.

This first mystery introduces the main characters, whom we get to know little by little as Himonya-san solves the cases one by one, from the sofa in his living room, as Kaede brings them to him.

The book combines mystery and everyday life in a beautiful way. It is easy to feel Kaede’s anxiety as she watches her grandfather, once a brilliant man, deteriorate quickly. At the same time, we see the beginning of the friendship that grows between Kaede, Iwata and Shiki.

What I liked most is that each mystery has one, or even two, unexpected twists. When Himonya-san seems to have found the solution, a minute later he changes his mind and offers another one that makes even more sense. Sometimes, he changes it twice.

Kaede and her grandfather solve the mysteries by telling different tales that try to explain what happened. And this is where part of the book’s magic lies: the same event can make sense through more than one possible tale.

What I liked less is that some mysteries are solved because Himonya-san already knew the people involved, or because of details that feel a bit forced and that the reader has to accept simply because the great detective includes them in his version of events.

Would I recommend it? Absolutely. The book is a cosy mystery that feels different from others, full of lovable characters. But above all, it is the portrait of an unforgettable grandfather: Himonya-san, wise and fragile at the same time, and impossible not to care about.

And you — which books remind you of your grandparents?

It’s the late nineties. A night full of food, laughter, games and Christmas carols is waiting for me. I am happy, surrounded by my family. I feel safe.

At the end of the table, my grandfather watches us in silence, smiling. I’m only seven years old and I can’t understand why he smiles like that: a calm, victorious smile, like someone who has just rolled the dice in a game of Ludo and instantly knows they’ve won.

Yesterday marked twenty years since that scene. Yesterday, I ate soup again, and my cousin, sitting next to me, asked if there was ice for her glass of Coke. I looked around and, this time, I felt a knot in my stomach as I missed those who left too soon, and I noticed the quiet tears that appeared when they were remembered.

And yet, I also watched the laughter of the little ones, playing, unaware of the pain of the adults. I listened to their conversations about the presents they had asked for. My auntie told my nephew not to touch the Christmas tree, and my daughter asked me to buy her the same coat her aunt was wearing.

At the end of the table, I saw my mum watching us in silence, with a triumphant smile. And then I understood. It was the same smile I had seen on my grandfather’s face, the one I couldn’t understand back then. It was the smile of someone who has managed to bring a family together at Christmas. The smile of someone watching the youngest ones be happy.

I wondered whether, one day, I would also sit at the end of the table, watching my children, grandchildren and new faces raise a glass and be happy.

Whether I would feel that same mix of sadness for those who are no longer here, and pride at seeing that the scene that once made me so happy as a child is now making my own children happy.

Maybe growing up is this: stopping looking towards the end of the table and, without realising it, starting to sit there.

And you — is there a scene from your childhood that you only understood many years later?

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

This setup has been used over and over again in books, films, and TV series. It’s almost become a genre of its own within mystery fiction.

That’s why I was so keen to go back to the beginning. To the spark that started it all. And, of course, to do so with the undisputed queen of crime: Agatha Christie.

What is the book about?

The Mousetrap is actually a play. I had never read a story in this format before and, at first, I wasn’t completely sure about it. But to my surprise, it didn’t feel awkward at all. The story flows easily, and the tension is still there, even without a narrator.

Now, the plot.

When Giles and Mollie Ralston, a young married couple, open their guesthouse just outside London, they have no idea that their new business is about to become the centre of a dark and unsettling crime. A murderer is hiding among their guests.

Cut off by a snowstorm, and knowing that any of them could be next, the eight people staying in the house — including a police sergeant — must work out who the killer is before it’s too late.

Eight uneasy characters come together in this classic Agatha Christie story, whose ending has been kept secret for decades.

My thoughts

I came to Agatha Christie quite late. My reading tastes have changed a lot over the years: I started with fantasy, moved on to historical adventure, and later to crime. At one point, none of these genres really worked for me, and I went through a bit of a reading slump. Until I discovered cozy mystery.

I had always heard how brilliant Christie was and how important she was to the mystery genre. What surprised me most, though, was how simple her stories are. In my head, I imagined something closer to a fast-paced, dark thriller. Instead, I found calm, observant stories, with a very cozy feel.

The Mousetrap is no exception.

The idea behind it is strong — an isolated house, a small group of people, and a killer among them — but for me, the execution felt a little too simple.

The first act is mostly about introducing the characters and ends with a murder. That makes sense, especially for a play. The problem is that in the second act there’s very little investigation or questioning, which makes the story feel a bit flat and stops it from really taking off.

Everyone in the house is clearly hiding something, and maybe because of that, the investigation — which is what I usually look for in this kind of story — stays in the background.

That’s probably why it felt short to me. It feels like there was room to do more, especially with the characters. Some relationships didn’t quite work for me — like Molly and Christopher — and some characters felt too similar. Christopher and Paravicini, even though they want very different things, sounded very alike in their conversations. At times, it felt like they could have swapped lines without it feeling strange. And in a story with only eight characters, that’s a bit disappointing.

The same thing happens with the murders themselves. There’s a darker story underneath, but the play only briefly touches on it.

Overall, I was left with the feeling that Christie sets up something really interesting, but doesn’t fully go into it.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m used to her style, or because I’ve read a lot of mystery, but I found the killer fairly easy to guess. The problem is that I didnNot because of the clues, but because of the patterns — there’s really only one clear hint, and it comes right at the end.

Even so, one detail really stood out to me. I’m used to stories where each character explains their own movements during the time of the crime. I didn’t expect The Mousetrap to do something different. Here, the characters describe someone else’s movements instead, which felt smarter and made much more sense, especially for the detective.

Would I recommend it?

I know I’ve been quite critical, but The Mousetrap does work — as long as you know what kind of story you’re getting. It promises complexity, but delivers something much simpler, focused more on the characters’ interactions than on a detailed investigation.

As a writer, what do I take from it?

Without a doubt, the idea of swapping characters when reconstructing the movements during the crime. While I was reading, it gave me an idea I’d love to explore in my own novel.

And you — have you read or seen this play? What did you think?

Sometimes what holds writing back the most isn’t a lack of ideas, but an excess of expectations. That feeling that every scene has to be perfect, final.

To avoid that — and to keep moving forward with my own novel — I’ve decided to write differently: every week I share five prompts and write a scene inspired by one of them. No pressure. No overthinking.

This week’s prompts were:

• The protagonist finds an object in a place where it shouldn’t be.

• Two characters have a conversation in which one comment triggers something revealing.

• In the middle of the night, the protagonist receives a visit from someone important.

• A character finds a notebook with a note they don’t remember writing.

• In a café, the protagonist makes a decision they have been avoiding for a long time.

I had already written a scene using the third prompt, so this week I drew inspiration from prompts number two and five.

This is the result. It’s not a final scene, and I know there’s still a lot to polish, but I feel like I’m moving forward.

The alarm went off at five in the morning.

Mina woke with a jolt, the image of Gio’s body collapsing onto the table closest to the door of The Cozy Cup still in her mind. It took her a few seconds to realise where she was. To understand that it had already happened. That it hadn’t been a nightmare.

The grey London light filtered through the curtains, drawing a pale stripe across the wall. She sat up slowly and looked at Krum. He was sleeping on his side, his brow furrowed, breathing unevenly. Mina wondered if he was having a bad dream. She almost woke him, but stopped herself. She needed some time alone.

She got up quietly and went to her room to get ready. She was on the early shift that day. As she dressed, she wondered whether the café would even open after what had happened. No one had told her not to go to work. Either way, she wanted to be there.

As soon as she closed the door of her small flat, her phone vibrated. On the screen appeared the name “iaia María”, the way she had always saved her grandmother’s contact. Mina immediately felt something like relief.

“Iaia?”

“My girl…” Her grandmother’s voice sounded warm, but tired. “I called you last night. You didn’t answer. Are you all right?”

Mina closed her eyes. She didn’t know where to begin.

“A friend has died, Grandma.”

There was a brief, heavy silence on the other end of the line.

“I knew it,” her grandmother murmured at last. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I felt something strange… as if someone couldn’t find their way.”

Mina swallowed.

“I’m going to take out the cards,” her grandmother added naturally. “We need to understand.”

Her grandmother shuffled on the other end of the phone. Mina couldn’t see her, but she knew that sound by heart: the soft brush of the cards sliding through wrinkled hands, the gentle tap as they were lined up on the table.

“Tell me when to stop,” her grandmother said.

Mina closed her eyes. She thought of Gio. Of his tired smile. Of the scent of wood that still seemed to follow her.

“Now.”

There was a brief pause.

“Which pile do you choose?”

“The one on the left.”

Her grandmother didn’t answer straight away. Mina could picture her eyes — bright, almost childlike — studying the card she had just turned over.

“The Tower,” she said at last.

A shiver ran through Mina.

“That means something breaks,” her grandmother continued. “But not on a whim. It breaks because it was already badly built. Because it couldn’t stand any longer. Your life as you knew it has already changed, my girl. And there’s no way back.”

Mina pressed the phone tighter against her ear.

“Draw another one,” she whispered.

“Death.”

Mina held her breath.

“Don’t be afraid,” her grandmother said quickly. “This card isn’t about dying. It’s about closing a door. About accepting that something has ended so something else can begin.”

Her voice softened.

“That friend of yours…”

“Gio,” Mina whispered, her voice trembling.

“His death doesn’t mean an ending — at least not in your life. Something new could come from it. If you want it to.”

Mina thought of the shadow at the foot of her bed. The tightness in her chest. The fear. And the certainty that she had to find out who was responsible.

“There’s a third card,” her grandmother said more slowly.

Mina noticed the change in her tone.

“What do you see?”

This time her grandmother took longer. When she spoke, it was in a whisper, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

“The Devil. A very dark energy. Someone who believes they have power over others. Who manipulates. Who controls. Who acts out of fear of losing what they have.”

Mina frowned.

“Is it far away?”

“No,” her grandmother replied without hesitation. “It doesn’t come from outside your life. It’s very close. Too close.”

Silence settled heavily between them.

“Your friend Gio… has he crossed the veil?”

Mina held her breath. Her grandmother knew her too well.

“No. He came to see me last night.”

Mina broke down in tears.

“Iaia, I’m scared.”

“I know, my girl. Remember: when a shadow doesn’t cross the veil, it isn’t to haunt. It’s because someone owes them a truth.”

“I think he was murdered, and he wants me to find out who did it. The cards say so.”

“The cards don’t force you to do anything, Mina. They only show you the path. Whether you walk it or not — that’s up to you. Although I think you’ve already made your decision, whatever the cards may say.”

“I love you, iaia.”

“I love you more, my girl.”

They hung up.

Mina stood still for a few seconds, her phone in her hand. She looked at it and felt something shift inside her. She no longer felt sadness or fear.

Now, there was determination.

This exercise isn’t about perfect scenes, but about continuity. A different way of fighting procrastination. Every week I’ll share five new prompts and a scene born from one of them.

If you feel like writing with me — or simply reading as this story slowly takes shape — you can come back next week. And if you’d like to read previous entries, you can find them here.

And tell me in the comments: which prompt would you have chosen? Would you like to share your own scene?

Last week, in my latest post, I shared that I wanted to write more and think less about social media—and that, to make that happen, every week I would suggest five random writing prompts and build a scene from my novel based on one of them.

The goal of this exercise is to make progress on my novel—one that work and life force me to neglect more than I’d like—and, why not, to share some fragments here in hopes of receiving a little feedback.

It’s also an exercise in courage, because sharing a small piece of your art—something you’ve built from within, from your very essence—always feels dizzying.

If you’d like to read the previous post where I explain this idea in more detail, I’ll leave it here.

This week’s prompts were the following:

• Write a scene that begins with an unexpected sound.

• A character who finds an object in the wrong place.

• Two characters having a conversation in the rain.

• A conversation that begins with a lie.

• A character entering a room that transports them into the past.

The idea was to share these prompts on Mondays in a note and in my chat, and that, if you felt like it, you could share a scene too. I have to thank for sharing hers. By the way, she also has an even more interesting writing exercise, where she writes texts inspired by images. If you understand Spanish, I’ll leave it here in case you feel like taking a look.

Dei's Writing Blog

Río, cielo y cascada

¿En qué momento descansamos realmente? ¿En qué momento dejamos de perseguir un sueño, una meta, una vida? Los pensamientos fluyen como un río, la vida golpea con la fuerza del agua de una cascada. El paisaje alrededor goza de vida y de color, pero si nosotros vamos en el agua, …

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5 months ago · 3 likes · 1 comment · Just Dei, actually

Coming back to today’s post, I chose prompt number four and wrote this scene:

— Hey… —he said, still sleepy. — What’s wrong?

— I had a nightmare —she lied, still trembling.

— It’s been a horrible night. I still can’t believe it —he said.

— What do you think could have happened?

— Maybe the tea bag had gone bad.

Mina wasn’t so sure.

— Krum… I think it’s pretty clear that someone—one of the people who were there tonight—put something in the tea.

She felt Krum’s thin body tense beside her.

— If that’s true, then we work with a murderer. No, Mina. That can’t be. It must have been a mistake. Who would want to kill Gio?

— I don’t know.

— Everyone adored him. He helped all of us. Even the customers were fond of him.

— Yes, you’re right —she agreed— but it’s also true that he seemed strange today. Some things don’t add up. What was he doing leaving with Tom and Matteo? They have nothing to do with us. And he looked sad, worried. He told me his family in Brazil needed money.

— So you think what happened to him has something to do with that? —Krum asked.

— I think it has something to do with something —she replied— and that it wasn’t an accident.

Krum glanced at her.

— How can you be so sure?

Mina hesitated. She wanted to explain what she had just witnessed. It had happened to her before. Her grandmother had told her that when a soul doesn’t cross the veil, it’s usually because there’s something left unresolved. She felt that Gio’s shadow had come to visit her to ask for help. Still, she didn’t know how to explain this to Krum without him thinking she was crazy. She didn’t want him to look at her differently, for their friendship to change.

— Sometimes I feel things I can’t explain —she finally said.

— Okay —he replied calmly—. When you’re ready, you can tell me.

He smiled suddenly, as if he needed to cling to something good.

— Do you remember when he dressed up as Santa Claus just to cheer Helena up because she was working on Christmas Eve?

Mina managed a faint smile.

— Or when Maja told us that, when she was still working at The Cozy Cup, he arrived twenty minutes early every day for weeks just to teach Jakub how to make cappuccinos without Ashley finding out.

— Or that time —Krum added— when he stayed with us cleaning because he saw we were on the verge of collapse.

— And when he brought cookies one Friday because he wanted us to start the weekend with something sweet, saying they were “from the supermarket,” and then we found out he had baked them himself —Mina recalled, a knot in her throat—. I remember Matteo calling him “grandma” when he found out, but he still took an entire bag.

Krum nodded.

— If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be living here. He was always there. For everyone.

Mina nodded too, swallowing hard. The more they talked about him, the clearer it became to her that something didn’t make sense: Gio had always helped everyone.

And now, he was the one who needed help.

And you—what do you do to inspire your writing?

Tomorrow I’ll be sharing five more prompts. If you feel like it, I’d love to read you and learn about your project.

“You promised we’d put up the Christmas tree today,” the oldest says, very seriously, looking at me with those huge eyes of his, as if warning me not to break a pact that, for him, is sacred.

It’s the end of November; there are only a few days left until December begins. The windows are fogged up from the night’s cold, though inside the house I feel the warmth; not just from the radiators, but the familiar warmth of children excited about something they’ve been looking forward to.

“Mum, this ornament has my name on it,” my little one says, smiling with those beautiful black eyes of hers.

I sit on the sofa, tired after the whole week, and watch them hang ornaments and figurines in no particular order, as always. Their father puts on a Christmas song in Spanish, and they begin to sing it—confidently, by heart—even though they don’t understand the words, since Spanish isn’t their first language.

And for a moment, I feel a little closer to home. The nostalgia that almost always follows me falls silent for a few hours. I don’t think about the “what if…”. I just feel that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. That every decision—the easy ones and the hard ones—has led me to this afternoon, to this feeling.

For me, that instant is what December represents. It’s the time of year when darkness is smiled at, sung to, and loved. We celebrate the early nightfall with lights that twinkle as if they were the brightest stars.

It may be the most anticipated month of the year; from the very first day there’s a quiet sense of expectation, a murmur that grows with each passing day and culminates on the twenty-fourth.

For me, December is a symbol of joy. It’s the month of returning home, of being with family; the month when I know I’ll feel safe, well, protected.

Though I’m aware that not everyone feels the same, that the idea of reuniting with family can cause anxiety. For a long time, I felt that way too. I was always rather introverted, while my family was the opposite: extroverted, loud, explosive.

I remember getting a book as a gift and spending the whole night sitting on the little sofa in my grandparents’ living room, wrapped in a blanket, reading. Around me, the voices of my parents, uncles, cousins, and grandparents blended into songs and conversations that felt far too loud for me. Every now and then my cousin would storm in, upset that I preferred reading to playing with her, and my mother would look at me from the doorway as if to say, “You’re so boring, daughter.”

Over the years, I think we’ve learned to accept each other. Their spontaneity amuses me now. They ask what I’m reading or bring me a cup of hot chocolate when I need a moment of peace.

Maybe it’s because new members have joined the family with personalities more like mine, and I’m no longer the only one sitting in that little room with a book. Or maybe because, back then, no one quite knew how to keep “the odd one out” company, and now, as we’ve grown older, we’ve learned to be more tolerant, more courageous.

Every December, I feel a little braver, thanks to the simple fact that I can be myself without fear of being judged.

That’s why this month I’ve decided to write more and devote real time to my novel—the story that has always been with me, but that for years I was afraid to start out of embarrassment, out of fear of what people might think, or of not being enough.

I’ve created twenty writing prompts and each Monday I’ll share five. At the end of the week, I’ll post a small fragment of my story in the subscribers’ chat, and I invite you to do the same. You can share a piece of your novel, a journal entry, a scene, a thought, an illustration… whatever makes you feel good, brave.

I hope December brings you a little corner where you feel at home, even if just for a moment. And, if you feel like it, a place from which to write.

Over time, that restaurant became my refuge: the one corner of a cold and grey city that managed to make me feel warm and safe. My co-workers became my improvised family. I was very happy there, despite the exhaustion of endless shifts and a salary that barely allowed me to buy new clothes.

But London often comes with an expiration date. Little by little, my friends left. Most returned to their home countries, defeated by a city that can be cruel when you’re alone; others found better jobs. I, ever the hopeless nostalgic determined to relive over and over the moments when I had been happy, was the last to go. It hurt me so much that I didn’t set foot on that street again for fifteen years.

A few months ago, I was walking through the neighbourhood and, instead of taking the usual detour to avoid the restaurant, I gathered my courage and took the route that would force me to face it. I felt a flutter in my stomach when I saw the sign with its name. I looked through a window and, to my surprise, recognised a few faces. The owner was sitting on the terrace with several workers. He looked at me, recognised me instantly, and it made me blush. He invited me inside for a coffee. As I stepped in, the smell of freshly baked bread hit me with the force of a memory: it was the same scent that, for years, had made me feel at home. I greeted a few co-workers I had once worked with, and we talked about our lives, while others—surely newly arrived in the country, as I once had been—looked at me with curiosity.

And still, part of me felt out of place. As if the restaurant had lost its magic. I sat down with the owner and an old colleague who had returned after moving back to his home country. We reminisced, spoke of people who were no longer there, and of stories we thought we had forgotten. Until he said the sentence that has stayed with me ever since:

“This place isn’t what it used to be.”

Of course it wasn’t: fifteen years had passed. Our energy—the one that made up that improvised family—had changed. And although I like to think that a part of us remained there, the truth is that I couldn’t find it. Everything felt calmer, quieter, more distant.

Then I understood: I wasn’t supposed to look for that energy in the restaurant. It was a part of that place—and of those people—that had stayed within me. It lives with me. Not the other way around. Because what I longed for wasn’t the place, but the time that no longer exists. No matter how often we return, nothing is ever exactly what it once was; what remains lives only in our memory.

I couldn’t stop thinking about all of this while reading the book. In it, a new Sherlock Holmes appears in 1930s London, long after the death of Conan Doyle. This man, claiming to be the very same Holmes from the novels, wanders the city in search of a new Watson to help him solve mysteries, as if trying to revive an era that no longer exists.

To do so, he interviews every man named John H. Watson who is a doctor and has served in the war. Until finally, the ideal candidate appears: a man who not only shares the name and profession of his old friend, but also seems to reflect the personality he so desperately misses.

Yet the famous detective isn’t the only one to have resurfaced: a new Moriarty rises from the shadows of England, weaving schemes capable of shaking the country to its core.

The book is divided into three cases, each following the same structure. First, Watson narrates how the mystery reached Sherlock’s hands and the adventures they went through to unravel it. Then, an omniscient narrator retells the case from Moriarty’s perspective, showing how his shadow stretched across each of them.

This dynamic didn’t convince me at first, because I’m not usually a fan of stories with multiple narrators. I felt they disrupted the rhythm. However, by the end of the book, I understood why it made perfect sense for the cases to be told from two perspectives, because—and it’s easy to guess—they were simply pieces of a puzzle carefully put together by Moriarty.

There are clear references and subtle nods to Doyle’s work that may reveal parts of the plot. For example, the first appearance of Bastianne Moran, introduced as a grieving woman who seeks Sherlock’s help to solve her sister’s murder, immediately made me suspect that the case—the very first one, no less—had Moriarty’s signature. For those who haven’t read Conan Doyle’s works, Sebastian Moran is the right-hand man of the infamous criminal.

However, there are notable changes compared to the original stories. The first is the number of women who appear in this one: as I mentioned earlier, Moriarty’s right-hand is now, no less, a woman. The new Mrs. Hudson also has as much—or even more—involvement in solving the cases than Watson himself. The new (or old) Sherlock Holmes is also far more human, and toward the end of the book, there’s a palpable need for belonging in him, a search for the family he never had. And not only in Sherlock: Moriarty, too, displays a similar longing—something that surprised me, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.

I figured out the final twist around the middle of the book. I had already read other works by the authors and knew they were great admirers of Agatha Christie, so it wasn’t difficult to guess where things were heading. Still, even though I suspected what was going on behind the scenes, I enjoyed the read and would recommend it without hesitation.

When I finished the book, I thought again of that street I avoided for fifteen years. Perhaps, like Holmes, we are all trying to return to the people we once were—until we realize that the only way back is through memory.

Sadly, the book is only in Spanish—for now!—but it could be a good idea to give it a try if you are trying to learn the language.

And tell me: what stories have taken you back to a time that exists only in memory?

The train doesn’t slow down—quite the opposite. It speeds up, as if trying to force me to choose without thinking. The landscape blurs, as if someone had dragged a hand across a still-wet watercolour. I approach the junction faster and faster. The carriage trembles. I can’t breathe. My fingers, hesitant, shake over the control panel.

I close my eyes.

Without thinking, I press the button on the right. Not because I’m sure it was the right choice, but because the speed pushed me into taking a path.

Picture by pinterest:https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/11540542793106383/

For a long time now, I’ve had the feeling that my life moves in the same way: full speed, without pause. But in the last two years, even more so. As if someone had hit the fast-forward button without warning. And instead of sitting quietly, watching the landscape blur outside the window, I’m in front of the control panel trying to slow down.

The problem is that life doesn’t stop. There is no pause button, no platform where you can step off, catch your breath, and hop onto the next train. Because no one guarantees that another one will stop, or pass slowly enough for you—now ready—to climb back on.

Sometimes I feel that everything happens so quickly that I can’t hear myself. I struggle to find creativity, to make decisions, to think clearly; my own thoughts get buried under a mountain of tasks that can’t wait.

The hard part isn’t choosing between right or left. The hard part is finding a moment of silence in which to choose. How do you listen to your intuition if your mind won’t stop talking? How do you decide where you want to go, if you barely have time to breathe?

I get the feeling more and more of us feel this way. I keep seeing articles and conversations looping around the same theme: the rush, the noise, the sense of always running, trying to reach something that’s moving too fast. We’re tired.

I’d love to end this article with some advice, some magic formula to help you stop your train. But right now, that would just be a list of actions I don’t even follow myself. Because the truth is, I don’t have answers—only questions. Just like you, I’m still trying to find a way to slow down.

So I ask you:

How do you make your train go a little slower?

I’ve had this review pending for a couple of weeks, but better late than never, right?

Let’s begin.

What’s the book about?

Clara Dawson is invited to a Halloween party in 1932 New York.
What promised to be a night of cocktails, laughter, and a chance to forget her troubles soon turns into a disturbing experience.

The evening begins to take a dark turn when, in the middle of a ouija session, a strange man appears outside the window. As she leaves the house to follow him, Clara finds a child’s toy in the garden—something unusual, since there are no children in that home. Even more unsettling is that she seems to be the only one who can see a little boy hiding behind a bush.

After that, the medium Madame Celestia arrives, and the séance begins.

My impressions

The story has a distinctly gothic style and is set in the 1930s.
Rather than a novel, it’s a (very) short story divided into just four scenes:

1. Clara getting ready to go out and recalling her childhood and her relationship with her mother.

2. Her arrival at the party and the start of the ouija game.

3. The appearance of the mysterious man and the discovery of the toy soldier.

4. The séance.

I found the story really engaging; the four scenes are well-built, and the tension rises steadily until the séance, which is simply sublime.

However, it left me wanting so much more. I would’ve loved to see Clara investigate who that man was — the one searching for his son — and what connection he had with the mysterious child only she could see. I suppose I’m not the biggest fan of short stories; I always end up craving a full novel.

She couldn’t help but wonder if a house could ever truly free itself from its past, or if its walls would carry the weight of those memories for all eternity.

Would I recommend it?

Absolutely.
Although brief, it manages to create a haunting atmosphere in just a few pages. It was the perfect read for Halloween night.

It left me wanting more, so I’ll definitely be reading the other stories in the series.

If you enjoy gothic tales, ghosts, and a touch of mystery, this story will be right up your alley.

It’s also the month when I was born, something that has weighed on me for a decade. The month when I question my life, my choices. Each year, I ask myself the same questions: Have I made the right decisions? Am I where I want to be? It’s the month when I long the most for what could have been, and when the future feels most uncertain.

With every passing year, those questions grow louder, more insistent. I watch life go by and feel that the chances to undo my choices, to go back, are becoming fewer and fewer.

For me, November is, above all, a month of reflection and introspection.

Picture from Pinterest: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/211174978632396/

Over time, I’ve learned that life moves in cycles. There are seasons when everything fits together, and others when everything seems to fall apart. Friendships drift away so that others you thought were lost can return. People you meet for the first time, and others you’ll never hear from again. That’s why I always manage to rise from my sadness: because I know that what I miss will, sooner or later, find its way back.

November, in a way, reminds you of that very truth.

It’s the month when nights grow longer and the day slowly fades away. The month when it’s easier to feel sad, when you can barely sense the warmth of the sun and the cold, silent, slips through every corner. It’s the month when, in a way, the day dies.
But it’s also the month that teaches you that darkness never lasts forever — that, in a few months, the days will begin to stretch again.

November is the month of the phoenix: the month that reminds us that everything must come to an end in order to be reborn again.

Picture from Pinterest: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/211174978632396/

That’s why, this month, my readings will be deeply connected to the idea of reflection and rebirth.

1. Buscando a Watson, by Teresa Ortiz-Tagle and Javier Cosnava.

A man claiming to be Sherlock Holmes appears in 1930s England. Yet, he has lost his loyal companion, John Watson.
Determined to find Watson or, failing that, a new partner to fill the void left by his iconic friend, Holmes roams London, interviewing candidates and solving new mysteries.
But soon he discovers that perhaps he isn’t just looking for an assistant, but for an anchor to hold on to in a world he no longer understands.

Why did this book catch my attention?

First, because I’ve read the entire series Agatha Christie and Poirot, the True Poirot, by these two authors. All of the books managed to keep me hooked, even if I liked some more than others.

Second, because of the idea of resurgence, of being reborn like a phoenix, something that deeply connects with my vision of this month.
I imagine a displaced Sherlock, trying to relive what he once was, clinging to a past he longs for, and afraid to look ahead, toward the unknown.

Sadly, the book is only in Spanish.

2. The Midnight Library, by Matt Haig.

Between life and death, there is a library.
And the shelves of that library are infinite.
Each book offers the chance to try another life you could have lived and to see how things might have changed if you had made different choices.
Would you have done anything differently if you could?

Why did this argument resonate with me?

Because it reflects, with striking precision, how I feel, especially at this time of year.
It’s something I think about constantly: if I had the chance, would I change that one decision that shaped my life? I feel a deep curiosity about those parallel lives built from the choices I didn’t make — those lives that somehow exist within my mind.

I like the idea that our life is a library, where each decision writes a different story.
And November the month that reminds you there are still many books left to write.

What does November mean to you?

To mark this day, I wanted to share a scene from my novel in progress, one that takes place just after the death of a character.
It’s a fragment about what perhaps never truly leaves.

I’ve always believed that the dead never truly leave us.
If we pay attention, we can still feel the scent, the presence, of those who are on the other side.

Perhaps, when we remember them, it’s us who pull the veil aside for a moment.
Or maybe, it’s them who remember us.

And you, do your shadows ever visit you?

Suddenly, a wave of sadness overwhelms me. I know I will never live a scene like this.

My life moves to a different rhythm, in a different language, with a different routine. And though everything works, every time I come back, something inside me unravels, breaks. I don’t miss what I have; I miss what could have been.

Returning is painful. I don’t enjoy the moments; I watch them from the outside, trapped in an endless nostalgia for what I never had. I don’t long for the past, but for the life I might have lived if I had never left.

Sometimes I feel that, in a parallel reality, I am still here. That I have a quiet life. I can see it in sharp, vivid images. A simple, ordinary life. It’s so easy to glimpse that I miss it; because I feel that, in some way, a parallel me lives it. Yet I cannot reach it—I can only observe it from afar.

I feel envy for that version of myself. Anger, even. As if the life that should have been mine has been taken from me.

I try to remind myself that I left because I wasn’t happy here. That it was the fault of the people around me, the circumstances I lived through. I wonder if perhaps I was a coward and should have stayed to fight for the life I thought I deserved. I curse the expectations that pushed me away, the illusion that elsewhere the problems would disappear.

I’ve always heard that you should never return to the place where you were once happy. Perhaps the danger isn’t in returning to that place, but in going back to the place where you think you could have been happy.

Do you sometimes feel that there’s a life waiting for you somewhere else?

I’d been wanting to read this book for ages, and finally, this October, I got my hands on it. Mystery, murder, and witchcraft — perfect for this month!

Let’s begin!

The Plot

Mark Easterbrook is an exhausted historian who, one night after spending the entire day buried in papers, ends up in a small café in Chelsea. There, by chance, he witnesses a heated fight between two young women, one of them named Thomasina Tuckerton. He doesn’t think much of it at first… until he discovers that Thomasina has died shortly afterward.

Her name, however, doesn’t completely disappear: it appears on a mysterious list where most of the people mentioned have already died under seemingly natural circumstances. One day, Mark runs into an old friend — now a police inspector — who tells him that a priest, after attending to one of the victims, was murdered, and that this very list had been found hidden in the priest’s shoe.

Almost at the same time, during a dinner with friends, Mark overhears, by chance, the name The Pale Horse — an old pub turned into a private house where, according to rumours, three witches live. Driven by curiosity, he travels to Much Deeping, a small village where the house stands, to spend a few days with his cousin, who happens to live there, by chance. He meets the three women, and after a conversation as enigmatic as it is disturbing, he begins to suspect that the deaths might not be mere coincidence, but something much darker.

Determined to uncover the truth, and perhaps confront his own fears, Mark devises a plan to expose the supposed witches and find out whether The Pale Horse truly hides the hand of witchcraft… or something even more unsettling.

My Impressions

Agatha Christie once again proves why she’s the queen of mystery. The Pale Horse is a story that builds slowly, calmly, as we follow a skeptical yet curious and rational Mark Easterbrook. But as the pages go by, almost without noticing, the pace quickens: skepticism gives way to obsession, and the rational man finds himself trapped among shadows, superstitions, and rituals. He even takes part in a séance — one of the most chilling scenes in the book.

However, although the mystery and pacing work well, there were a few details that didn’t quite convince me. If you’re sharp, you may have noticed that in the plot summary, the words “by chance” appear more than once, and not by mistake. In The Pale Horse, almost everything happens by coincidence: the encounters, the clues, even the final resolution. That constant sense of chance weakens the story a bit. It might have been more compelling if, instead of stumbling upon Thomasina or running into his policeman friend by pure coincidence, Mark himself — or someone close to him — had appeared on that unsettling list. That would have made the mystery more personal, more inevitable.

Evil and Science

These two themes — evil and science — are at the core of the novel and something Agatha Christie reflects upon with surprising clarity. I have more than one note about “evil” and its power: how it seems stronger, more visible, louder than good. And precisely because it dazzles and dominates, it must be fought. If we don’t, it spreads, it seeps into everything, until darkness becomes part of the landscape.

At the beginning of the book, there’s a quote that perfectly sums up this idea:

“It came to me suddenly that evil was, perhaps, necessarily always more impressive than good. It had to make a show! It had to startle and challenge! It was instability attacking stability.”

The Pale Horse, Agatha Christie.

The other major reflection in the book revolves around science. Among the theories about the deaths, there’s the question of whether they are really the result of witchcraft or perhaps some form of mind control, or a scientific advance too modern for its time. This quote caught my attention, and even today, in the age of artificial intelligence, it still carries great weight:

“Will machines take the place of men eventually? Of men, yes. Men who are only units of manpower — that is. But Man, no. There has to be Man.”

The Pale Horse, Agatha Christie.

Do I Recommend It?

Absolutely.

The Pale Horse is a story full of intrigue and mystery, with a dark edge that we don’t often see in her works. A novel that blends superstition and science; because Agatha doesn’t just construct a mystery full of questions, she invites us to look deeper: to think about the power of evil, and how it can disguise itself as science. There’s something magical about seeing how a story written more than half a century ago asks the same questions we still ask today.

And you? Have you ever asked yourself these questions about evil and science? Did this book make you think? Is there another story that’s made you reflect similarly?

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These past few weeks I’ve been a bit more serious, writing a mix of short stories and poems with a nostalgic touch and even a hint of horror. Honestly, I wanted to experiment with a few pieces before sharing my novel.

However, today I’m in a much better mood, and I’m bringing you the recipe for my favourite latte: the cinnamon latte. I know, I know. It’s Halloween season and everything should revolve around pumpkins. So why cinnamon? Well, a few weeks ago I started reading Murder at the Maple Café after seeing it recommended on Pinterest. I downloaded it from Amazon, and everything was going great until the second act… when the book started repeating itself in an endless loop. With a heavy heart, I had to give up on it. So here’s my little shout-out: does anyone know where I can find a properly printed copy?

Now then, here’s my favourite Cinnamon Latte recipe. Let’s get started!

Ingredients:

• 1 or 2 shots of espresso (or ½ cup of strong coffee)

• ¾ cup of milk (use your favourite kind, I always go for oat milk)

• 1 cup of water

• 1 cup of brown sugar

• 3-4 cinnamon sticks.

• ½ teaspoon of ground cinnamon

First, make the cinnamon syrup:

• Heat 1 cup of water and 1 cup of brown sugar in a small saucepan.

• Add 3–4 cinnamon sticks.

• Let it simmer for about 15–20 minutes, stirring occasionally.

• Allow it to cool so it thickens slightly.

• Remove the cinnamon sticks.

This syrup keeps well in the fridge for up to two weeks, so you can use it more than once!

Once your syrup is ready, make the latte:

• Mix 1 or 2 espresso shots with a bit of the cinnamon syrup.

• Add the hot milk.

• Top with a sprinkle of ground cinnamon and a drizzle of syrup.

Voilà!

And you… have you ever tried a cinnamon latte? What’s your favourite kind of coffee? Are you team pumpkin or team cinnamon?

Remember that you can also follow me in:

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I feel you behind me.
The air escapes from my lungs; I don’t know if it’s from running or from fear.
I have a bad premonition, the certainty that something dark is about to happen.
I stop: my head spins, and my stomach tightens.

And it is in that moment of weakness that you reach me.
I feel your embrace—strong and relentless—and everything turns black.
Your arms crush my chest; I struggle to breathe,
and in the silence, you show me the future:
a succession of pain, misfortune, and suffering.

My body and soul fracture.
A tiny crack, invisible to the world,
but sharp and clear to me, runs through my being.
And, gripped by a sadness I cannot contain, I cry.

Your shadow no longer pursues me: it lives inside me.
I feel that crack widening, splitting my soul in two.

You feed on my happiness, my hope, my dreams.
And there, in despair, in the midst of darkness,
I feel a ray of light.
Weak, powerless, my shattered soul begins to mend.

At last, I feel you leaving…
though I know you never truly go.
Hidden, I sometimes see you, waiting for the moment.

And you… how do you feel the darkness?