Whispers of the Music Box

Wexlern pushed open the creaky wooden door of the old antique shop, a small bell tinkling above him as he stepped inside. The smell of aged wood and dust greeted him, mingling with the faint aroma of something floral, like dried lavender. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim, warm light filtering through the cluttered room. Shelves and tables were crowded with artifacts from another time: ornate picture frames, delicate porcelain figurines, vintage clocks ticking softly, and countless other curiosities.

He wasn't here for just any old item, though. He had his eye on a particular piece he had seen last week—a beautiful, intricately carved music box. It was no larger than a small book, made of dark mahogany, with inlays of mother-of-pearl forming an elaborate pattern on the lid. When he had opened it, a gentle, lilting melody had floated out, and a tiny ballerina had begun to spin gracefully. This wasn’t any ordinary music box. He had known instantly as he first saw it- he could feel something. Energy. Strong, pulsing energy. Coming from that music box. Whispering to him, beckoning him. He knew what that meant. He had to possess it.

The shopkeeper was Mr Hesteg, a wizened old man with a bushy white mustache and spectacles perched on his nose, looked up from behind the counter as Wexlern approached.

"Ah, back again, are we?" Mr. Hesteg said with a knowing smile. "Couldn't stay away, I see."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hesteg," Wexlern greeted him with a nod. "Yes, I can't stop thinking about that music box. It's quite extraordinary."

Mr. Hesteg chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "It is, indeed. A fine piece. French, from the late 19th century. One of a kind."

Wexlern glanced around the shop, as if to make sure no one else was listening. Then he leaned in closer. "I'd like to make an offer on it."

The old man's smile faded slightly. "I'm listening."

Wexlern took a deep breath. "I'll give you two hundred dollars for it."

Mr. Hesteg shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid that's much too low. That music box is worth at least three times that amount."

"I understand," Wexlern said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "But it's all I can afford right now. Surely, there must be something we can work out?"

Mr. Hesteg stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Tell you what," he said after a moment. "I do have a favor to ask. There's a mirror in the back room—an old, heavy thing. It needs to be moved upstairs, and my back isn't what it used to be. If you help me with that, I'll consider lowering the price for you."

Wexlern's face brightened. "I'd be happy to help."

The two men made their way to the back of the shop, where an ornate, gilded mirror leaned against the wall. It was indeed large and looked quite heavy. Wexlern rolled up his sleeves and positioned himself at one end of the mirror, while Mr. Hesteg took the other.

"Ready? One, two, three, lift!" the shopkeeper instructed.

With a great deal of effort and careful maneuvering, they managed to carry the mirror up the narrow staircase and into a small room filled with even more antiques. By the time they set it down, Wexlern was sweating and out of breath.

"Thank you, young man," Mr. Hesteg said, patting Wexlern on the back. "Now, let's talk about that music box."

Back at the counter, the shopkeeper appraised Wexlern thoughtfully. "You know, it's rare to find someone as determined as you are. How about we settle at two hundred and fifty dollars? That's the best I can do."

Wexlern beamed. "Thank you, Mr. Hesteg. I appreciate it."

He handed over the money, and Mr. Hesteg carefully wrapped the music box in brown paper before handing it to Wexlern. "Take good care of it," he said. "It's a special piece."

"I will," Wexlern promised, cradling the package in his arms as if it were a treasure.

As he left the shop, the bell tinkled again, and Wexlern couldn't help but smile. A music box. Clever. In the end, though it was merely the effort of moving a mirror, not much trouble at all. He felt like singing and shouting all at once- but his face remained inscrutable- it was not yet time for such jubilation. He had work to do. Clutching the brown paper package to his chest, he quickened his pace as he rounded the corner on Wurlich Avenue.

Lourisport was a bustling small city and as Wexlern darted through the crowded streets of Bayers and The Chess Board Block, replete with street vendor carts and tents, loud music and throngs of aimless enjoyers, Wexlern’s eyes scanned his surroundings with a mix of urgency and caution. He did not see anyone watching him. Of course, anyone worth being afraid of wouldn’t be so obvious either. His heart was racing, and he could feel the sweat on his brow. Don’t be so obvious, he scolded himself. He pressed onward, only three more blocks to the rail line.

As he reached the subway station at the zoo, a cacophony of animal sounds briefly mingled with the city’s din. Descending the stairs two at a time, his thoughts flickered to the animals behind the fences and glass, creatures who could sense a world beyond but were confined to their enclosures. He wondered if they too felt the same sense of urgency and longing for freedom, a sentiment that echoed the urgency of his mission. As he descended the long spiral staircase with the grim covered red and yellow tiled walls, he felt the package grow heavier, almost too heavy to carry, but then by the time he reached the platform below, the package was as lightweight as when he had left the shop. He smiled. Classic liminality enchantment.

The train rumbled forward towards the platform, neon signs near blinding with advertisements for the products and services of nearby shops. Wexlern chose the third car, the library car. He preferred it, though he did not read books these days. He chose the library car for its quiet, and the fact that it was the least popular car on the train, always. Lined with bookshelves on all walls with individual chairs anchored throughout the rail car, Wexlern chose a seat in the back left of the car, by the non-fiction books. He sat in the hard plastic seat and thought to himself that this is how you remember you are on a railcar- they can dress it as a library, but this chair will give it away every time. Still, it would have to do. Soon he would not need public transportation.

Wexlern disembarked at Crake’s Street, a humble street behind the waterfront factories at the edge of the river banked city. His apartment building, a skinny brown brick building protruding onto the sidewalk further than any of the other buildings on the block, stood out like a beacon as he headed up the hill. The narrowest building by far, it looked to Wexlern as if it had been squeezed between the two neighboring buildings and the excess had popped out the front, taking over the sidewalk space.

His hand shook as he struggled to fit his key into the lock, with a final twist he freed the lock, opening the door to the dimly lit stairwell. The hall smelled of burned food and cheap perfumes. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. He would not miss this place. Squaring his shoulders he ascended the stairs, a baby’s whaling cry echoing in the halls. He went faster. The music box became heavier again, seemingly quadrupling in weight as he continued up the staircase. No matter, it would be light again soon. He carried it with both hands by the third landing, only one more flight to his apartment he told himself as he gritted his teeth and hoisted the package up against his chest, protected with both arms crossed over it. Finally, he arrived at the 4^th floor, his front door was the only one on this level. Not that there was room for other doors, but the landlord had possessed the nerve to charge him a fee for a private entry. He had laughed in his face, and something about the way Wexlern’s eyes glittered made the landlord decide to stop pushing for a fee. He smiled at the memory.

Wexlern opened his front door and breathed a sigh of relief. Home. He made it. Quickly closing and locking the door behind him he set the music box gently on the small wooden table by his bed.

He carefully unwrapped the brown paper, revealing the polished mahogany and shimmering inlays. The Music Box was pulsing now, warm to the touch and he could feel the energy coming off of it. Wexlern's heart raced with anticipation. He had suspected that the music box was more than just a beautiful antique. Now was the moment of truth. He had read about objects that could bridge worlds; artifacts imbued with ancient, mystical powers. This music box, he believed, was one of those rare treasures.

Taking a deep breath, Wexlern opened the lid. The same gentle, lilting melody began to play, but instead of a ballerina, there was a small snow globe in the center. As the music played, the snow globe started to spin slowly, and inside it, Wexlern could see a tiny wooden log cabin nestled within a miniature winter wonderland. Again the Music Box whispered to him, a soothing chant in a language he did not know but understood. He focused on the snow globe. The cabin was intricately detailed, with smoke curling from the chimney and tiny trees dusted with snow surrounding it. Tiny flecks of snow swirled around, creating a mesmerizing scene.

He watched the snow globe twirl, waiting for a sign, something to confirm his suspicions. As the melody played on, he noticed a faint, shimmering light emanating from the inlaid mother-of-pearl. The air around him seemed to grow thicker, charged with an unseen energy.

Wexlern smiled to himself. He had known the moment he saw the music box in the antique shop that Thalorin was hiding within it. He could feel the old wizard's energy, an unmistakable signature that had eluded him for centuries. Thalorin had chosen this place, this pocket world, to conceal himself from Malakar's relentless pursuit.

Suddenly, the room around him began to blur and distort. The walls and furniture dissolved into a swirling mist, and Wexlern felt himself being pulled into the music box. He held his breath, the sensation both exhilarating and terrifying. The melody grew louder, enveloping him completely, and in a flash of light, he was transported to another dimension.

When the mist cleared, Wexlern found himself standing in a snowy mountain landscape. The air was crisp and cold, and the ground beneath his feet was blanketed with fresh, powdery snow. In front of him stood the log cabin from the snow globe, its chimney puffing out smoke into the clear, blue sky. The surrounding mountains loomed majestically, their peaks dusted with snow and glittering in the sunlight.

Wexlern took a cautious step forward, his breath visible in the frigid air. The melody from the music box had faded, replaced by the serene silence of the snowy landscape. He approached the log cabin, his heart pounding with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Reaching the door, he knocked gently, the sound echoing in the stillness.

To his surprise, the door creaked open on its own, revealing a warm, inviting interior. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace, casting a golden glow over the rustic furniture and wooden walls. As he stepped inside, Wexlern noticed shelves filled with ancient books and curious artifacts. The air was thick with the scent of pine and burning wood.

"Welcome," a deep, resonant voice called out from the shadows.

Wexlern turned to see an elderly man step into the light. He was dressed in long, flowing blue robes, his hair and beard as white as the snow outside. His eyes sparkled with wisdom and kindness, but there was also a hint of caution.

"My name is Thalorin," the man said, inclining his head slightly. "And you must be Wexlern, the one who found the music box."

"How did you know my name?" Wexlern asked, bewildered.

"I have been waiting for someone like you," Thalorin replied, a small smile playing on his lips. "You see, this music box is more than a mere trinket. It is a gateway to this pocket world, where I have been hiding."

"Hiding?" Wexlern echoed, his curiosity piqued.

"Yes," Thalorin said, his expression growing serious. "I am hiding from another wizard, a dark sorcerer named Malakar. He seeks to harness the power of this world for his own nefarious purposes. I created this sanctuary to escape his clutches and to protect the knowledge and magic contained within these walls."

Wexlern looked around the cabin, and as if realizing the significance of what he had stumbled upon- "Why me?" he asked. "Why did the music box bring me here?"

"Because," Thalorin said, placing a hand on Wexlern's shoulder, "you have a kind heart and a courageous spirit. The magic of the music box recognizes these qualities in you. I enchanted it with a test- to help a stranger carry a burden. You have completed this test or else the music box wouldn’t have opened for you. Now, I need your help to protect this world and to stop Malakar from finding it."

Wexlern nodded, feeling the warm glow of delight in his deception swell within him. After all these years chasing dead ends, finally it was within his grasp. He was so close he could taste it. "I will help you, Thalorin. Tell me what I need to do."

Thalorin's eyes twinkled with gratitude. "Together, we will ensure that this world remains hidden and safe from those who seek to exploit its power. But first, there is much for you to learn."

As Thalorin began to speak of ancient spells and protective enchantments, Wexlern's expression shifted subtly. The moment had come.

"Thalorin," Wexlern interrupted, his voice calm and measured. "There is something you must know."

The old wizard raised an eyebrow, curiosity replacing the earlier twinkle in his eyes. "What is it, Wexlern?"

With a measured, deliberate movement, Wexlern reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an amulet, its dark stone glowing faintly with an ominous light. Thalorin's eyes widened in recognition, the color draining from his face.

"It can't be," Thalorin whispered, taking a step back. "That amulet... it belongs to Malakar."

Wexlern's calm facade remained unbroken. "Indeed, it does. And I am Malakar."

Thalorin's expression shifted from shock to a mixture of fear and anger. "You... you deceived me!"

"I did what I had to do," Wexlern—Malakar—replied evenly. "I've been searching for you ever since the great battle of the Wooden Sea. You've hidden well, but you should have known I would find you eventually."

Thalorin's hands trembled slightly as he reached for his staff, which had been leaning against the fireplace. "And now that you've found me, what do you intend to do? Destroy me and claim this world for yourself?"

Malakar smiled, but it was a cold, calculating expression devoid of warmth. "I have no interest in destroying you, Thalorin. Not yet anyway. Your knowledge is far too valuable. This pocket world inside the music box is a marvel, and I intend to learn everything about it. With your help."

"I will never help you," Thalorin spat, his voice filled with defiance.

Malakar's smile faded. "I was afraid you might say that. But you see, I didn't come here to ask for your help. I came to take it."

With a swift, fluid motion, Malakar raised the amulet, its dark stone now pulsating with a menacing light. Thalorin tried to summon a protective spell, but the dark magic of the amulet was too quick. Shadows extended from the stone, wrapping around Thalorin and binding him in place.

"Stop this, Malakar!" Thalorin cried out, struggling against the magical restraints. "You don't understand the power you're meddling with!"

Malakar stepped closer, his eyes cold and unforgiving. "Oh, I understand it perfectly. That's why I need you, Thalorin. To unlock its full potential."

As Thalorin continued to struggle, the dark wizard reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out the music box. He opened the lid, letting the haunting melody fill the room. The snow globe began to spin once more, the tiny log cabin inside now seeming like a prison rather than a sanctuary.

"You've hidden from me for centuries," Malakar said, his voice barely a whisper. "But now, you will teach me everything you know about this world and its magic. And once I've mastered it, there will be no place left for you to hide."

The shadows tightened their grip, and Thalorin's struggles grew weaker. Malakar watched with cold satisfaction, knowing that the power he had sought for so long was finally within his grasp. The peaceful sanctuary within the music box had become a battleground once more, and this time, Malakar intended to emerge victorious.

As the fire continued to crackle and the snowstorm raged outside, the fate of Thalorin and the pocket world inside the music box hung in the balance, the gentle melody now a chilling prelude to the dark days ahead.