Legend LXXXIV – The Collector of Silent Bones

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It is said that in the borderland between moor and forest, a woman wanders whose footsteps leave hardly a trace, though she carries a heavy burden. She appears in the pale light of dawn or at that hour when the mist no longer reveals the ground and even the sounds of the forest fall silent, as if the trees were holding their breath. Her cloak is made of coarse, dark fabric, patched many times, torn by thorns, rain, and years, and beneath the low-drawn hood, long silver hair falls like withered grass over a face that seems older than any known chronicle. Her skin is pale and crisscrossed with fine lines, as if time itself had carved into it, yet her eyes glow like embers beneath ashes, not with anger, but with a knowledge that cannot be taught and will not be shared. In her right hand she carries a staff of intertwined roots, heavy and dark, crowned with a skull held by vines, cords, and dried plants, as if it were not a trophy but a guardian, a witness, and a memorial all at once. A large basket rests on her back, filled with herbs, twigs, bone tools, and objects whose purpose has long been forgotten. In her left hand she holds another basket, containing skulls and bones, clean, silent, and overgrown with moss, among which small flowers grow, as if the forest had accepted them and embraced them gently. This woman is known as the Collector of Silent Bones. She does not seek the dead, nor does she bring death to anyone. Her task begins only when everything else has ended, when cries have faded, names are no longer called, and even memory itself becomes fragile. She gathers the remains of those whose names have fallen from the stories, whose graves crumbled or were never built, whose lives left no song, no sign, and no tombstone. They are the forgotten, the nameless, the overlooked, and every bone she picks up carries within it a final echo, an unspoken thought, a wish never fulfilled, sometimes only a feeling of coldness, shame, or longing. The collector hears these echoes, but she does not answer them. She does not contradict them or comfort them, but carries them, often for days and weeks, until they are heavy enough to be laid down. On nights when the forest is completely still and even the wind no longer stirs, she does not light a fire, for flames would disturb the voices. Instead, she lays the bones on damp ground, arranges them carefully, washes them with dew, and speaks soft words older than prayers, words addressed not to the gods, but to the world itself. Then the voices lose their sharpness, become quieter, calmer, and the restless find peace, not in oblivion, but in being acknowledged. People fear her, for wherever she appears, they remember what they have repressed. Houses seem emptier, names sound strange, and dreams bring back faces thought lost.