text: [Themes: Horror]
  
  Maybe it was the cold or the sensation of emptiness to my side, but I was fully awake. I didn't dare to move, so I just lay there, very still, looking at the ceiling with my hands hidden under the sheets.
  
  I suppose it has happened to you some time. You wake up in the late hours in the night, with the sensation that there's someone in your room, and end up lightning a candle to find that there's nobody there, just a nocturnal mouse at most.
  
  Only this time I knew he was nearby.
  
  He came to collect an old debt, from when I was still young, from when I still believe in the future and run naked between the bindweeds.
  
  "Five times five years has passed, my green-eyed child... five times five years of luck and fortune. A man who loves you, a son of hair like wheat in summer, coins slipping through your fingers, a house with a white gate and servants to attend it."
  
  Fingers colder than white frost touch my face, while a cacophony of ten voices whispers on my ears, but I suppress the scream that struggles to escape from my throat and I lay still with eyes shut.
  
  "Are you sleeping? I don't believe so. As you see, I keep my promises. Would you keep yours? The desire of my heart in exchange for a time of bliss."
  
  I hear the floorboards creak. He moves away. He is... he is near the cradle, I know it.
  
  "I ask not for silver, nor gold, nor earthly wealth. I don't desire anything in vain, much less something you can't give me. I only ask for what a mortal can dispose of. Give it to me, and our contract will be folded, sealed and stored in the fourth drawer of the hundredth room inside the tallest tower of my inverted castle. Deny it from me, and I will take your son, your husband will suffer a terrible death, your servants will abandon you pouring venom upon your honor, and winter will nest in your home. Give me... give me the love of a mother and everything will be settled. Only five beats of your heart I grant you."
  
  With a sigh, I stand.
  Once upon a winter night, the ragman came singing under your window
  
  I am half sunken in the gloom of the room. The fireplace shines with dying embers that barely reach to illuminate the scene. Most of the light comes from the moon that penetrates, invasive, through the open window, along with some sporadic snow drifts like folds of cloth.
  
  It must has been open for a while since some snow has accumulated over the harpsichord, in the space next to the window.
  
  The Ragman is hunched over the cradle of my only son at the far corner of the room. I can hear him whisper a cradle song while he knits with his long, long fingers, complicated structures of thread, which my son tries to grasp with his little hands; he is crying quietly, irritated, either afraid or hungry.
  
  I am reclined on the bed, my back resting against the headboard. To my side there is an empty space. The sheets have been set aside.
  
  [Author's Note: Maybe it was the cold or the sensation of emptiness to my side, but I was fully awake. I didn't dare to move, so I just lay there, very still, looking at the ceiling with my hands hidden under the sheets. I suppose it has happened to you some time. You wake up in the late hours in the night, with the sensation that there's someone in your room, and end up lightning a candle to find that there's nobody there, just a nocturnal mouse at most. Only this time I knew he was nearby.]
  
  > About yourself
  This is a body that carries thirty-seven years on its back, and still looking good. Let's say I still provoke some glances at social dances, in spite of having a baby recently (my mother said that my hips were not wide enough for it) and my breasts still swollen.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > Inventory
  I am carrying nothing.
  
  "Two was the inhabitants of paradise."
  
  > give the child
  Mi child is hungry... but I can't reach him. It's getting colder.
  
  "Three were the wise men, gift bearers."
  
  > say yes
  Whom do you want to say that to?
  
  > Ragman
  I try to speak, but my breath escapes silently through my lips.
  
  "Shhh, don't strain yourself, quiet, soon you will sleep. Just calm my thirst, and everything will end."
  
  "Four, the misfortunes that will mark the end of the man reign."
  
  > look at Ragman
  An old shadow from my youth, from times of desires and crooked paths. He seems like an abandoned scarecrow, with broken and twisted limbs. His arms and legs adopt impossible angles when he moves, in a strange dance, like if he was controlled by a mad master of puppets. He dresses in a maelstrom of fabrics and patches, colours out of order, hanging with such disparate ornaments as a pocket watch, a rosary of marbled beads, a salmon's eye, a Grylloblatta, an earring from which an ear still hangs... What for ours is junk, for him is the most precious of jewels, a trophy devoid of banality.
  
  Worst of all are his head and hands. Instead of a cranium, he wears the empty semblance of a mannequin, plain, without trimmings, and as the only concession to a human figure wears a tangled wig, like the ones seen in the festivities of the high neighborhoods. His hands... are like metallic branches from which hang the threads with which he entertains, himself or an audience, creating strange shapes: a cradle, a boat, a bird... all while the tiny cherub faces that are the tips of his fingers do not cease to chatter.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > Hug ragman
  the Ragman might not like that.
  
  "Two was the inhabitants of paradise."
  
  > Kiss Ragman
  the Ragman might not like that.
  
  "Three were the wise men, gift bearers."
  
  > examine baby
  My precious, my life. Just when I thought it could not be possible... it happened. My joy and sadness. Joy because he was an unexpected gift, sadness because he was the rubric of a contract. Now, he is unwillingly playing with the thread figures that the Ragman is crafting for him. He cries and protests quietly.
  
  "Four, the misfortunes that will mark the end of the man reign."
  
  > look at the bed
  It's a wide double bed of white sheets and a mattress of corn leaves. It seems far bigger with the space left behind by my husband. I touch that spot and the sheets are cold. Buried within them I find a copy of Son of Man.
  
  > examine son of the man
  It's an essay on the gospel written by Father Giovanni Lanfranco. Lately I have liked to read it before sleep, maybe as an expiation because of my past life.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > read son of the man
  It's an essay on the gospel written by Father Giovanni Lanfranco. Lately I have liked to read it before sleep, maybe as an expiation because of my past life.
  
  "Two was the inhabitants of paradise."
  
  > examine harpsichord
  One of the few hobbies that I allow myself. I have been told that I play quite well, so I have placed it by the window, for aesthetic reasons and a point of vanity. There's a music sheet over the desk, it is: "Piano and orchestra concert No 33, by B��la Bart��k".
  
  "Two was the inhabitants of paradise."
  
  > examine the window
  The window is open wide, maybe from the strong winter wind that preceded the Ragman's entrance. However, as far as I know, he has never had to enter any house, always just appearing when nobody is looking.
  
  "Three were the wise men, gift bearers."
  
  > take the book
  I extend my cold fingers, but my strenght fails to me. It's like if I had a slab over me. They are perhaps my sins.
  
  "Four, the misfortunes that will mark the end of the man reign."
  
  > take the harpsichord
  I extend my cold fingers, but my strenght fails to me. It's like if I had a slab over me. They are perhaps my sins.
  
  > listen
  I hear nothing unexpected.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > Smell
  I smell nothing unexpected.
  
  "Two was the inhabitants of paradise."
  
  > give yourself
  Mi child is hungry... but I can't reach him. It's getting colder.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > enter the window
  That's not something I can enter.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > stand
  But I am not in anything at the moment.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > take the book
  I extend my cold fingers, but my strenght fails to me. It's like if I had a slab over me. They are perhaps my sins.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > wake up
  The dreadful truth is, this is not a dream.
  
  "One was the sun king."
  
  > Sleep
  I am not feeling especially drowsy.
  
  "Two was the inhabitants of paradise."
  
  > Y.
  Maybe it was the cold or the sensation of emptiness to my side, but I was fully awake. I didn't dare to move, so I just lay there, very still, looking at the ceiling with my hands hidden under the sheets.
  
  I suppose it has happened to you some time. You wake up in the late hours in the night, with the sensation that there's someone in your room, and end up lightning a candle to find that there's nobody there, just a nocturnal mouse at most.
  
  Only this time I knew he was nearby.
  
  He came to collect an old debt, from when I was still young, from when I still believe in the future and run naked between the bindweeds.
  
  "Five times five years has passed, my green-eyed child... five times five years of luck and fortune. A man who loves you, a son of hair like wheat in summer, coins slipping through your fingers, a house with a white gate and servants to attend it."
  
  Fingers colder than white frost touch my face, while a cacophony of ten voices whispers on my ears, but I suppress the scream that struggles to escape from my throat and I lay still with eyes shut.
  
  "Are you sleeping? I don't believe so. As you see, I keep my promises. Would you keep yours? The desire of my heart in exchange for a time of bliss."
  
  I hear the floorboards creak. He moves away. He is... he is near the cradle, I know it.
  
  "I ask not for silver, nor gold, nor earthly wealth. I don't desire anything in vain, much less something you can't give me. I only ask for what a mortal can dispose of. Give it to me, and our contract will be folded, sealed and stored in the fourth drawer of the hundredth room inside the tallest tower of my inverted castle. Deny it from me, and I will take your son, your husband will suffer a terrible death, your servants will abandon you pouring venom upon your honor, and winter will nest in your home. Give me... give me the love of a mother and everything will be settled. Only five beats of your heart I grant you."
  
  With a sigh, I stand.
  
  > feed Ragman
  Once upon a winter night, the ragman came singing under your window
  
  I am half sunken in the gloom of the room. The fireplace shines with dying embers that barely reach to illuminate the scene. Most of the light comes from the moon that penetrates, invasive, through the open window, along with some sporadic snow drifts like folds of cloth.
  
  It must has been open for a while since some snow has accumulated over the harpsichord, in the space next to the window.
  
  The Ragman is hunched over the cradle of my only son at the far corner of the room. I can hear him whisper a cradle song while he knits with his long, long fingers, complicated structures of thread, which my son tries to grasp with his little hands; he is crying quietly, irritated, either afraid or hungry.
  
  I am reclined on the bed, my back resting against the headboard. To my side there is an empty space. The sheets have been set aside.
  
  > feed Ragman
  "D... Dri... Drink." I manage to articulate with an effort that almost depletes my waning strength. The Ragman jumps and dance and claps, then he pounces on me, tearing my nightdress, in his devouring thirst. His hands scream with joy while they take turns to snatch a piece of me. My son cries in a forgotten corner, confused, as now my world is reduced to this moment of loss and liberation.
  
  Little by little the laugh of the Ragman fades away.
  
  "Very good... satisfying and warm is the love of a mother. This will make my heart know summer for some time. Our account is settled, our pact completed. Now I retire, since other souls, craving for what they already have, require my care.
  
  I open my eyes. He is gone.
  
  My son is still crying.
  
  I stand up and close the window. I stoke the fire.
  
  I cuddle and cradle my son. He is still hungry, but I am empty. I can only offer him... cold..