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Hansel Delar

This story is dedicated to all those strange people. The stray of the world. The beings of gloomy soul, the night walkers without more... For those eternally nostalgic and lonely. Worshippers of the moon and the night itself. Those who prefer the company of cats to that of dogs. Those who can read a Poe tale or a Lovecraft story, over and over again, discovering in those gothic landscapes captured in his works, a place of belonging. This story is an open invitation for lovers of rain, gray days and storms. For those who love to write after sunset under the dim light of a candle. For those who prefer a few intimate companions rather than a frivolous crowd. For those who love winter, the dry leaves of the trees and the whisper of the rivers. For worshippers of the vampire, wizard or sorcerer archetype. For those who like Saturn, the color black, purple, the blue of Odin. To his runes and to the primordial darkness of our mother Ginnungagap. To those who appreciate cemeteries, their statues and their mausoleums. To those who are pained by the madness of modern society, and therefore choose to step aside to shape their own individual realities. For those who know that we all die alone in this ephemeral plane of existence through which we transit. Where the only eternal thing is the word. For those who love wine or whiskey. Coffee or hot infusions. For lovers of old books, their smell and their yellowed paper. For lovers of silver, ink, letters and music. This book is for you. Only for you it could come to mean something... Perhaps as a refuge to turn to. A shield or a cloak of shadows with which, I hope with all my being, you can resist.

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