Corvinus The Chronicler of Lost Stories Part 1

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Corvinus lived in a tower that could only be entered if one carried an unanswered thought in one's mind. He was no ordinary raven. His eyes shimmered like inkwells in which stars had been drowned, and his beak was sharp enough to etch not only parchment but also timelines. He was known as the Chronicler of Lost Stories. The tower was filled to the ceiling with clocks: grand grandfather clocks with carved dragons, delicate pocket watches under glass domes, and wall clocks that were silent, waiting for the right story to tick again. Among all the brass stood shelves full of bottles. Floating within them were threads of light in every color, preserved dreams, forgotten spells, and unfinished songs. Each bottle was labeled, but the writing constantly changed, for memories were notoriously difficult to preserve. Corvinus sat at a heavy, dark-wood desk. With a quill that had grown from his own wing, he wrote in a massive book. The pages sometimes rustled of their own accord, as if eager to turn to the next sentence. In his other claw, he held a clock such as no watchmaker in the world could have created. On its face, no number turned, but a small, luminous galaxy. When he wound it, one heard not gears, but soft voices—words never spoken aloud. This clock didn't tell the hour. It showed the moment when a story should have been told, and wasn't. Tonight, it glowed unusually brightly. Colors danced through the small galaxy, and tiny stars shot across the dial like sparks. Corvinus put the quill aside, adjusted his small spectacles, and studied the clock. "Someone's putting off their story for too long," he murmured. He rose. His dark coat, embroidered with silver patterns like intertwined clock hands, brushed against the floor. With a flick of his claws, several luminous feathers detached themselves from the fabric. Blue, gold, and silver, they floated in the air. Words flashed across each one: "Song Almost Told," "Unwritten Letter," "Yes Almost Said." "Find me the origin," Corvinus commanded. Instantly, the feathers shot off like tiny comets. They slipped between gears, vanished through cracks, and set off into the world. Meanwhile, Corvinus pulled a bottle from a shelf. Inside floated a pale violet thread of light, trembling restlessly. The label read: "The Courage to Read Aloud for the First Time." "I'm afraid you're one of them," he murmured, placing the bottle next to the galactic clock. After a while, the feathers returned. They circled him like glittering thoughts and descended, one by one, onto the pages of his large book. There, they burned a name into the paper. Edda. Corvinus tilted his head. "Edda, then. The girl with the notebook she never opens." He took the galactic clock, put the bottle in his coat pocket, and went to a large door at the far end of the room.