Anonymous
7/5/2025, 4:41:04 PM No.12380721
I still remember that dream like I had truly lived it. It was around 3:14 a.m., and the silence was so heavy it felt like it had weight. I closed my eyes, trying to sleep again… and that’s when I fell into the dream. A dream I should’ve never had.
I was walking down a deserted street in Breña. Everything was dark, but not black—brown. A dirty, damp brown, like trampled earth. The sidewalks, the walls, even the fog seemed tinted in a faded brown, as if life itself had been drained out of the place.
That’s when I saw him.
A man was running silently down the street. His skin, his clothes, even his hair… all brown. Not just any brown—he was the color of dried mud, of mountain dust, of ancient trails. He was brown to the soul. They called him “The Chaski of Breña.”
An old man appeared beside me and whispered: “Don’t look into his eyes. If you do, he’ll know you saw him… and he’ll choose you.”
But it was too late. I looked.
The Chaski stopped. His face was emotionless, but his eyes—sunken and dull like old clay—shone with a silent malice. He smiled faintly, and even though he didn’t move his lips, I heard his voice echo in my mind:
“You will be next. The message must go on.”
I woke up, gasping, heart pounding.
But I wasn’t in my room. I was back on that same street. Everything still brown. In my hand, there was a crumpled, dry paper with a single phrase written in cracked mud:
“Run before 3:15… or he’ll run behind you.”
I turned around.
He was jogging toward me—brown, silent, inevitable.
And ever since that night… I dream of him. Running. Closer and closer.
Sometimes far… sometimes already breathing on my neck.
The Chaski of Breña never rests.
And the brown... consumes everything.
I was walking down a deserted street in Breña. Everything was dark, but not black—brown. A dirty, damp brown, like trampled earth. The sidewalks, the walls, even the fog seemed tinted in a faded brown, as if life itself had been drained out of the place.
That’s when I saw him.
A man was running silently down the street. His skin, his clothes, even his hair… all brown. Not just any brown—he was the color of dried mud, of mountain dust, of ancient trails. He was brown to the soul. They called him “The Chaski of Breña.”
An old man appeared beside me and whispered: “Don’t look into his eyes. If you do, he’ll know you saw him… and he’ll choose you.”
But it was too late. I looked.
The Chaski stopped. His face was emotionless, but his eyes—sunken and dull like old clay—shone with a silent malice. He smiled faintly, and even though he didn’t move his lips, I heard his voice echo in my mind:
“You will be next. The message must go on.”
I woke up, gasping, heart pounding.
But I wasn’t in my room. I was back on that same street. Everything still brown. In my hand, there was a crumpled, dry paper with a single phrase written in cracked mud:
“Run before 3:15… or he’ll run behind you.”
I turned around.
He was jogging toward me—brown, silent, inevitable.
And ever since that night… I dream of him. Running. Closer and closer.
Sometimes far… sometimes already breathing on my neck.
The Chaski of Breña never rests.
And the brown... consumes everything.