The Veil of Bones

The dead do not rest in Santa Dolores.

By day, the town swelled with colour, laughter, and the scent of fresh pan de muerto. Families built their ofrendas with loving hands, placing marigolds, candles, and sugar skulls before faded photographs of those who had passed. By night, the cemetery glowed under a thousand flickering flames, a golden bridge between the living and the dead.

But some spirits did not return to be honoured. Some had never left at all.

A hush settled over the graveyard in the deep hours before dawn. The final revellers had gone home, leaving the altars to burn down to wax and smoke. In the dark, among the tombstones, a shadow moved.

Deliberate. Silent.

The thief worked quickly, plucking heirlooms from their places—silver rings, lockets, carved wooden saints. Offerings meant for the dead. Their fingers trembled as they worked, glancing over their shoulder as if expecting to be caught.

Or worse—watched.

A gust of wind slithered through the cemetery, carrying whispers that did not belong to the living. The thief shuddered, shaking it off. It was just a story, they told themselves. A legend.

El Coleccionista de Almas—the Collector of Souls.