The Alien Storyteller

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The workshop was filled with the smell of old inks, dried herbs, and the dust of times long past. Sunbeams streamed through the narrow window and refracted off the jars and vials stacked densely on shelves. Amidst all this sat a slender figure, clad in a red cloak whose collar of pale fur encircled his long neck. His eyes—large, black, and with an alien gleam—shimmered like two dark mirrors refracting the candlelight. They called him simply the Storyteller. No one knew exactly where he came from. Some claimed he had fallen from the stars; others that he had always sat here, since the beginning of time. The only thing that was certain was that he knew stories no other being had ever heard. His hands, bony yet delicate, glided over the parchment. The quill scratched softly as he made marks that seemed both like words and small constellations. Each sentence was a spark, each paragraph a constellation. At the foot of his workbench sat small creatures, with the same smooth, alien skin as he did, only much smaller, almost like children from another world. They listened quietly, their eyes shining as he softly read aloud what he was writing. "Today I will tell you about the lost orb of memory," he began, and his voice was gentle, but carried a metallic quality, as if it echoed through invisible spaces. "It was once forged by the Guardians of the Stars to preserve the knowledge of entire worlds. But a wanderer of flesh and fur stole it because he believed memories could be possessed like a treasure. Since then, the worlds have drifted apart, and many songs are forgotten." The little ones moved closer, and one dared to ask, "Master, is this a true story?" The storyteller put down his quill and looked at him, long and intently. "Truth," he said slowly, "is like light in water. It refracts, distorts, but always remains light. Perhaps it happened this way, perhaps differently. What matters is not whether it happened—but what we learn from history." As he spoke, the air in the room began to shimmer. The drawn symbols on the parchment dissolved, glowing like little stars, and floated across the table. Slowly, they formed images: a sphere, bright as a sun, then shadows enveloping it, and finally a sea of voices singing. The children stared, spellbound, at the projections, which seemed like living memories. For them, it wasn't just a story—it was a journey to another time, another reality. The narrator leaned back, his eyes shining as he watched them freeze in wonder. He knew that words alone were fleeting, but when combined with images and sensations, they could last for centuries. "One day," he whispered, "you will write stories of your own. Your words will guide others, just as mine do today.