Mara gritó aterrada. Ya no había puerta, ni pasillo, ni paredes entre las que correr. Solo el vacío por encima y la frágil seguridad del colchón bajo su espalda. En un acto reflejo de pura animalidad, se dejó rodar de la cama y se acurrucó contra el suelo, apretando el cuerpo contra las tablas, buscando una protección que sabía inexistente. Era el único acto que le quedaba: hacerse pequeña contra la tierra, mientras el cielo entero caía sobre ella.

A través de las patas de la cama, los vio aterrizar. Sus pies, pequeños y descalzos, no hacían ruido al tocar el piso de madera. Se fueron agrupando alrededor de la cama, una multitud silenciosa de túnicas oscuras.

No avanzaron. Solo se quedaron allí, erguidos, mirando el espacio donde ella se escondía. No con hostilidad, sino con una curiosidad abismal. Mara, jadeando, observó al más cercano. Su túnica no era tela: estaba hecha de una oscuridad que absorbía la luz, como un trozo de noche cosido.

Y entonces, el niño extendió su mano. No era una mano de niño. Sus dedos, largos y articulados, terminaban en finas puntas translúcidas, como cristal. Con ese dedo, tocó el suelo. La madera no se quemó ni se congeló: simplemente dejó de ser madera. Se volvió gris, lisa y fría, porcelana antigua. Los otros lo imitaron, rozando las paredes, la mesita de noche. No destruían. Estaban convirtiendo su mundo en el suyo, etéreo, neutro.

^{Imagen creada por Recraft}

Mara alzó la vista. Los otros niños comenzaron a imitarlo, tocando las paredes, la mesita de noche, la lámpara. Todo lo que sus dedos rozaban se transformaba, perdiendo su color, su textura, su esencia, convirtiéndose en ese mismo material grisáceo e inerte. No estaban destruyendo: estaban convirtiendo su mundo en algo etéreo, el suyo.

Una niña de cabello tan blanco que parecía de hilo se arrodilló y asomó la cabeza bajo la cama. Sus ojos grises se clavaron en los de Mara. No había maldad en ellos. Solo una paciencia infinita y un vacío que erizó la piel de Mara.

—¿Qué quieren? —preguntó Mara con la voz quebrada por el terror.

La niña inclinó la cabeza. La voz que surgió no fue un sonido, sino una sensación que brotó directamente en la mente de Mara, fría y clara como un cubo de hielo.

—No es tu cielo—.

La comprensión le cayó encima como un golpe seco. No eran invasores. Eran los verdaderos dueños de aquel lugar. Y la humanidad, con su ruido, su prisa y su color, no había sido más que un paréntesis, un sueño prestado que ahora ellos venían a borrar.

Los niños no se movieron para hacerle daño. Solo esperaron. Esperaron a que ella entendiera lo inevitable. El verdadero espanto no era morir, sino mirar cómo todo lo que conocías se deshacía frente a tus ojos, con la calma de quien borra una pintura sabiendo que pronto también tú serás una mancha más en el lienzo, un recuerdo desvanecido.

Porque el cielo no le pertenecía. Y, al final, tampoco la tierra.

^{Image created by Recraft}

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Jorge Rodríguez Medina (@siondaba)

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Gracias por leer. Hasta la próxima.

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English Version

“When you think you’ve reached heaven the choice isn’t yours because others are the ones in command…”

Greetings, friends. In every story I try to make the reader feel that mix of unease and fascination that lingers when the night is left alone with its secrets. Writing about the unknown is not an act of fear, but of curiosity — a way to invite others to look where few dare.

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The Sky Isn’t Yours

The creak didn’t come from the sheets but from the sky. It was a strange sound, like fragile bones rubbing together—or rather, like tiny stones rolling inside a bamboo stick—multiplied a thousand times. Mara opened her eyes and held her breath. Where her bedroom ceiling should have been, there was only a grayish void. And within it, floating in an unnatural stillness, were the children.

Hundreds of them. Maybe more. They wore long black robes that didn’t sway in the wind—because there was none—but undulated with their own rhythm, like fins in an invisible ocean. Their faces were pale, serene, with their eyes closed.

“Well,” Mara muttered, rubbing her eyelids hard. Something about the scene didn’t add up.

She looked again, thinking she was still dreaming, but no. The moment she spoke, she felt her voice had broken something, as if it had awakened a dormant secret. At the same time, all the children opened their eyes. She had never seen anything so horrifying: they had no pupils or irises, only a gray, living mass that moved inside their sockets, like the sky above them.

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Then came the real fear—the kind that grows in the gut, tightening her stomach. She looked up and saw no beams, no lamp, no peeling paint. Where the ceiling should have been, there stretched that gray, endless sky, as if her house had been flayed alive down to its bones. The known world had a limit, and that limit had just been erased.

A whistling began then. A sharp sound, like air being torn by hundreds of small bodies. The children dived straight toward her, toward the bed that now felt like an island in a sea of nothingness.

Mara screamed in terror. There was no door, no hallway, no walls left to run between. Only the void above and the fragile safety of the mattress beneath her back. In a reflex born of pure animal instinct, she rolled off the bed and curled against the floor, pressing her body to the boards, seeking protection she knew didn’t exist. It was the only act left to her—to make herself small against the earth, while the whole sky came crashing down.

Through the bedposts, she saw them land. Their feet, small and bare, made no sound on the wooden floor. They gathered around the bed, a silent crowd of dark robes.

They didn’t advance. They simply stood there, upright, staring at the space where she hid. Not with hostility, but with an abyssal curiosity. Panting, Mara watched the nearest one. His robe wasn’t made of fabric—it was made of darkness itself, like a piece of night sewn together.

And then, the child extended his hand. It wasn’t a child’s hand. His fingers, long and jointed, ended in fine translucent tips, like crystal. With that finger, he touched the floor. The wood didn’t burn or freeze—it simply stopped being wood. It turned gray, smooth, and cold—like old porcelain. The others imitated him, brushing the walls, the nightstand. They weren’t destroying; they were turning her world into theirs—ethereal, neutral.

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Mara looked up. The other children began to imitate him, touching the walls, the nightstand, the lamp. Everything their fingers brushed transformed—losing color, texture, essence—becoming that same gray, inert material. They weren’t destroying; they were turning her world into something ethereal—their own.

A girl with hair so white it looked like thread knelt down and peeked under the bed. Her gray eyes locked onto Mara’s. There was no malice in them—only infinite patience and a void that made Mara’s skin crawl.

“What do you want?” Mara asked, her voice cracking with fear.

The girl tilted her head. The voice that followed wasn’t sound—it was a sensation, blooming directly in Mara’s mind, cold and clear as a block of ice.

“It’s not your sky.”

The realization hit her like a blunt blow. They weren’t invaders—they were the true owners of that place. And humanity, with its noise, haste, and color, had been nothing more than a parenthesis—a borrowed dream they had come to erase.

The children didn’t move to hurt her. They only waited. Waited for her to understand the inevitable. The true horror wasn’t dying—it was watching everything you knew dissolve before your eyes, with the calm of someone erasing a painting, knowing that soon you too would become just another stain on the canvas, a fading memory.

Because the sky didn’t belong to her. And, in the end, neither did the earth.

^{Image created by Recraft}

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Jorge Rodríguez Medina (@siondaba)

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Thank you for reading. Until next time.

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🔹If you enjoyed the story, leave your comment and follow my blog for more tales. 🔹

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