A reverberation through a hall of mirrors. The shimmering surfaces of each shift and froth in its wake. Like water splashing against a rocky shore. Resolving finally to reflect your face in clear view- clearer than you've ever seen. The face below the mask you wear to the world.
The dang of a bell echoes from above. It sounds like a violin string struck with a knitting needle. Its vibrations shake lose a drop of dew that clung to the wick of a candle stick, and now it begins to burn without remorse.
A bead of oil climbs down a string into a vile. A toad watches from a nearby jar, sweating poison and bitter dreams of freedom. The workbench under both shifts with a creak as the apothecary leans his weight against it, placing his elbow on its surface to steady his hand. Hoping to save a young girl from a rash of elf-shot.
The breeze is steady and calm. It speaks with an exacting voice while it deposits riddles in your ear. It bears a harmony from yonder stone abbey, ushering forth from an attic window. A resonance that is now so close that it feels as though it has homesteaded in your soul and begun mining for daylight. It breaks through and now all tumbles inward.
