In the ancient dimness of the forgotten inn,
a silver cylinder slept upon the table,
cold as moonlight trapped in metal.
The wooden beams whispered untold stories,
and a lone mosquito, stubborn as fate,
traced restless circles through the air.
Curiosity, that flame that never dies,
pulled me toward the glow of the runes,
as if each line were a whispered summons.
The insect landed — and silence shattered:
light, vibration, a breath from another realm.
The cylinder awakened, stirring shadows.
The night held its breath at the window,
and the wind, once singing, fell mute.
I felt the floor shift beneath my steps,
as though the whole inn were listening.
The hum deepened into a distant echo,
a call rising from within the metal.
And I, who only sought shelter from the night,
found myself bound to a secret breathing in the dark,
where even the smallest trembling wing
can open doors that never close again.
The cylinder throbbed like a borrowed heart,
and I no longer knew if I wanted the answer or the mystery.
Brilliantly penned, PAR. Excellent write my friend you never disappoint. You’re a wordsmith! Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thanks Damian! LOVE!
This has me reading it several times. The hum is coming from the ring? Like a call from it?