The Chronicler of the Silent Wings

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The night stood large and clear before the window, the moon lying like an open circle in the sky. The small room smelled of wax, dust, and the bitter scent of dried herbs. Books, glasses, and drawings were stacked everywhere. But in the center, at a desk, sat the Chronicler. His figure was tall, his hands narrow and long, his head shimmering like that of a bird from a bygone era, with eyes that peered deeper than the walls allowed. With a fine pen, he drew lines across the parchment. No stroke was random; each guided the next, until figures emerged: beings with wings of mist, with voices of stone, with names never spoken. Beside the desk stood a small vessel, containing a younger shadow, a kind of mirror-being of himself. It listened while the Chronicler wrote, as if each word were a drop filling the silence. It was said that he didn't record what was, but what was forgotten. Every jar on the shelf contained not herbs, but captured moments. A laugh that never faded; a question that remained unanswered; a wingbeat that faded before anyone noticed. He didn't open them; he kept them as others bind pages between lids. Tonight, however, the candlelight trembled as if a gentle breeze passed through, even though no window was open. The Chronicler put down his pen, turned his head, and looked at the small doppelganger in the jar. "There's a new entry coming," he said, his voice flowing more from the air than from his mouth. "And this time not about the past, but about what is passing in the moment itself." He took a jar; a golden shimmer glowed within it. As he lifted the lid, a sound rose—a wingbeat, barely audible, yet filled with memory. The being within was long gone, but its last heartbeat had survived here. The Chronicler laid it on its side, and immediately lines, circles, and characters began to light up. He wrote: Everything that lifts not only wants to soar, but to remember. Wings are not instruments of height, but of return. Those who wear them do not forget, but carry the past beneath them like air. The small shadow nodded, as if it understood. Outside, the moon rushed across the sky, and stars shimmered like ink that had not yet dried. The Chronicler picked up his pen again. "The silent wings," he murmured, "they carry that which is not spoken." Each stroke became part of a larger pattern, until an image emerged, shimmering as if alive: a being with wide wings, half dream, half memory, settling itself into the pages as if it wanted to be read itself. When the candles burned down, the Chronicler laid the pen down. The drawing still glowed, as if it were not ink, but breath.