Luto scratches deep marks in your soul (test)
Luto, Spanish for grief, isn't a game you simply play. It's a prison you enter. You are Sam, a person trapped within your own four walls, or rather, within your own mind, and yet nothing feels familiar. Doors that promise to lead outside force you back into the same rooms. Hallways that wind endlessly swallow your footsteps. The house lives, breathes, and distorts. It's not a safe place, not a refuge, but a reflection of a shattered psyche.
The reason for this prison is as obvious as it is inescapable. Death and loss gnaw at us. Sometimes so deeply that we break. One or more loved ones are gone, and all that remains is emptiness. And this emptiness is insidious. It screams, it distorts, it turns memories into torture chambers. Every photo, every note, every familiar detail is like a knife, forcing you to reopen the wound again and again.
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