Tag: Musings on a Rock

The sign above the crooked wooden door read simply, “F. Brindle & Sons”, though no one could recall any sons, nor did anyone remember the last time the shop had a customer. Francis Brindle, the elderly proprietor, spent his days hunched over his workbench, his hands working with the precision of a much younger man. His eyes, however, carried the weight of centuries.

Clara pushed open the door, and a tiny bell tinkled overhead. The interior of the shop smelled of oil and dust. Everywhere she looked, there were clocks. Grandfather clocks, pocket watches, wristwatches—all ticking away in unison, each one keeping perfect time. At the centre of it all sat Francis Brindle, his silver hair glowing slightly in the dim light, his hands deftly adjusting the gears of a particularly intricate pocket watch.

Francis raised his head, his pale blue eyes fixing on hers. There was something unsettling about his gaze, as if he could see within her. “It has been waiting for you,” he said.

She glanced around, confused. “What has?”

The old man rose from his chair. He smiled faintly, reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a small ornately carved box. It was made of dark wood, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to shift as the light caught them. Slowly, he opened it, revealing a pocket watch unlike any Clara had ever seen. Its face was a shimmering opal, and the hands moved not with a ticking motion, but a smooth, fluid glide.

“This,” Francis said, holding the watch out to her, “was made for you.”

Clara frowned. “But I’ve never been here before.”

“The watch,” he said softly, “is special. It was crafted long ago.”

The moment her fingers touched the cool metal, a strange sensation washed over her, as if all the clocks were ticking faster, the rhythm of time accelerating around her.

“I don’t understand,” she exclaimed. “What is this?”

“You must make a choice. The watch will guide you to where you are needed most. But be warned, every choice has its price.”

She glanced down at the watch, now in her hand, its opal face shimmering with an otherworldly light. Deep within her, something stirred—an ancient memory, a sense of purpose that had long been forgotten. She looked up at the old man, her body steady despite the storm of emotions inside her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Without another word, Clara stepped out of the shop. She didn’t know where the watch would lead her, or what choices lay ahead, but time, once again, was in her hands.

Hidden between crumbling alleys and beneath a sky perpetually grey, stood the forgotten library. It had no signpost, no grand entrance, just an unassuming wooden door with a handle stiffened by passing centuries. Few remembered it existed, and even fewer dared to enter.

Inside, shelves spiralled upwards, filled not with books, but with glass jars. Each jar held a swirling glow, like a firefly caught in a perpetual dusk. These were dreams—dreams forgotten by their dreamers, abandoned in the rush of waking life. Some dreams flickered faintly, as if waiting for their dreamer to return. Others were vibrant, pulsing with untold stories that had never been fully realised.

One day, Mara stumbled upon the library by accident. She had been wandering the city aimlessly, lost in the maelstrom of her thoughts, when she noticed the old wooden door open at the end of an alleyway. Curious, she felt it somehow pulling her towards it, and she stepped inside.

“Welcome,” said the Archivist, the ageless caretaker of the library. “You’ve come for your dream.”

“My dream?” Mara frowned. “I haven’t dreamed in years.”

The Archivist smiled, gesturing to a small jar glowing softly on a lower shelf. “Not all dreams are remembered, but they are never truly lost.”

Mara approached the jar and peered inside. Slowly, like fog lifting from a forgotten shore, she saw fragments of a world she had once imagined as a child: a kingdom of floating islands, a ship that sailed through the clouds, and a beautiful cat-like creature with wings that could speak the language of the stars. It was a dream she had abandoned long ago, buried beneath the weight of growing up.

“Can I… take it back?” she asked.

The Archivist nodded. “Dreams are patient. They wait for you to remember.”

Mara reached for the jar. As her fingers brushed the glass, the world within it burst into life, spilling out a forgotten symphony. The kingdom of floating islands shimmered before her eyes, the ship unfurled its sails, and the star-speaking creature smiled as if greeting an old friend.

In that moment, Mara felt something she hadn’t felt in years: wonder.

She left the library with her dream clutched tightly to her chest. And though the city remained grey, and the alleys twisted in confusion, something had changed. For the first time in a long time, Mara remembered what it felt like to dream.

Every morning, without fail, during her usual commute to work, Leah noticed him. He always sat in the same seat, near the middle of the train, right by the window. His face never changed expression, his eyes fixed on the passing blur of the city outside. He was tall, with dark hair that was slightly unkempt, and always dressed in an old brown coat, even during the summer heat. He never got on, and he never got off. He simply was, like a part of the train itself.

One day, Leah sat across from him. Close enough to study, but far enough to avoid suspicion. She watched him as subtly as she could, waiting for some sign of movement, some flicker of life. But he didn’t blink. He didn’t shift in his seat. His gaze remained fixed out of the window, as if he were staring at something far beyond the city.

More days passed, and Leah became obsessed. One Friday morning, she decided to confront him. As the train rattled along the tracks, Leah stood up, crossed the aisle, and sat down next to the strange man. The seat didn’t feel different, but the air around him was unnaturally cold.

She looked at his face. Up close, he seemed even more unreal. His skin was pale, his hair slightly grey at the temples. His eyes—still focused on something distant outside—were an empty shade of brown. Leah spoke.

“Do you… do you ride this train every day?”

The man didn’t respond. His eyes didn’t move. Leah shifted in her seat, feeling a sudden wave of unease. She tried again, louder this time.

“I see you here every morning.”

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t reply. But then, slowly, his head turned towards her. His movements were stiff, as if he hadn’t moved in years. His eyes met hers, and Leah felt transfixed.

The man’s expression didn’t change. His voice was calm, detached. “You’ve been watching me.”

She tried to stand, but her body wouldn’t move. The train began to slow, the air growing stale… she looked around in a panic, yet no one else on the train seemed to notice—they sat motionless, as if the moment had frozen for them.

The train lurched to a stop. The world outside the window blurred into a deep darkness, but the passengers around her remained still, like statues in their seats.

The man stood, the cold air brushing her shoulder as he moved past. He stepped off the train at the stop, and disappeared into the fog that had rolled in.

The doors slid shut, the train pulled away. Leah stared out of the window, her mind now numb, her body motionless, as the train rattled along the tracks. The passengers around her stirred to life, as if nothing had happened—but Leah remained frozen, her stare fixed in the distance, beyond the window.

It was an old Victorian mansion, nestled at the edge of the woods, far from the rest of town. Alice and Mark bought it for a bargain, thrilled at the idea of renovating the grand old place and making it their own. Sure, it was a bit run-down, but it had character—high ceilings, ornate banisters, and a sprawling, overgrown garden that had long been forgotten by human hands.

The first night they moved in, the house was still. The air inside was musty, and rooms were thick with dust that hadn’t been disturbed for years. The house creaked and groaned, but it felt like home in a way that their previous apartment never had.

But the next morning, something had changed.

It was Alice who noticed it first. As she wandered through the main hallway to the kitchen to make breakfast, she saw a door that hadn’t been there before. It was plain, unremarkable, and yet she was certain it hadn’t existed when they’d done their walkthroughs. Curious, she opened it.

Behind the door was a new room. A study, lined with bookshelves filled with dusty old volumes, and a mahogany desk facing a large window that looked out into the woods. She stared at it, puzzled. They had toured the house a couple of times before buying it—there had been no study, and certainly no room like this.

“Mark,” she called out, her voice tinged with confusion.

He came quickly. “What is it?”

“This… this room. It wasn’t here yesterday.”

Mark frowned, stepping inside to inspect it. “Maybe we just missed it. The house is big.”

But Alice wasn’t convinced. She would’ve remembered a room like this—it felt lived-in, somehow, like someone had just left it moments ago. The air still smelled faintly of wood polish, fresh enough to make her uneasy.

They brushed it off, assuming it had just been overlooked. After all, they were still getting used to the house’s sprawling layout.

But the next morning, it happened again.

Another new door. Another new room.

This time, it was a small, cozy sitting room, with plush armchairs arranged around an unlit fireplace. The furniture was old-fashioned, as if plucked from a different era, yet untouched by dust or decay. Mark tried to explain it away again, but Alice could hear the doubt creeping into his voice.

By the end of the week, the house had grown considerably. There was now a second kitchen, a library, a music room, even a ballroom with chandeliers that sparkled in the morning light. The mansion was becoming a maze, and they were losing track of where they’d been and where they were going.

“This can’t be possible,” Alice said one evening as they sat in the original living room, the only space that still felt familiar.

Mark didn’t reply. He had spent the day trying to measure the house, counting steps from one end to the other, but no matter how he tried, the measurements never added up. The rooms seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking, expanding and stretching into places that shouldn’t be possible.

A week later, Alice woke to find Mark standing by a door she hadn’t seen before. His face was pale, his eyes hollow.

“I heard something last night,” he said, his voice shaking. “Coming from behind this door.”

“What did you hear?”

“Voices.”

They stood in silence, staring at the door. It was plain, just like the others, but something about it felt different. Darker. As if the house was waiting for them to open it.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Alice said anxiously, but Mark was already reaching for the knob.

The door creaked open, revealing a long, narrow hallway lined with paintings of unfamiliar faces, all carrying the same distant, sorrowful look. At the end of the hallway, there was another door, slightly ajar.

Mark stepped forward. “We have to see where this goes.”

They walked together. The air grew colder as they approached the door at the end, and with each step, Alice felt a growing sense of dread.

When they reached the door, Mark pushed it open.

Inside was a bedroom. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn. But the most unsettling thing was the photograph on the nightstand—a picture of Alice and Mark, standing in front of the house, as if it were taken recently. Only… they had never taken such a photo.

A soft sound filled the room. It was the faintest of whispers, barely audible. It came from the walls, the floor, the very bones of the house.

Mark turned to Alice, his face drained of colour. “We have to leave.”

But as they rushed towards the door, the hallway beyond shifted. The corridor they had come from was gone—replaced by a room of doors, leading to more rooms, all leading deeper into the house.

Slowly, they had begun to realise the truth: the house wasn’t just expanding. It was pulling them in deeper, further from the outside world, absorbing them into its bowels.

After such a long fast, the house had finally received another meal.

Ellie was walking through the market, the usual melee of thoughts surrounding her. A woman bartering for vegetables was thinking about her sick child. A man was worried about losing his job. Ellie heard it all—the undercurrent of humanity, as clear as spoken words.

Then, nothing.

For the first time in her life, Ellie couldn’t hear a single thought. She stopped. The market was still bustling, people still moving and talking, but the noise… it was gone.

In the middle of that strange silence stood a man leaning against a fruit stall, casually, like he belonged there—but Ellie had never seen him before. His mind was a void, an empty space where there should have been something—no thoughts, no emotions. Just… silence.

She stared at him. He looked up, locking eyes with her, as if he’d been waiting. The world around them blurred. He smiled slightly, then began to walk away, disappearing into the crowd.

Ellie’s feet moved before her mind could catch up. She followed him, weaving through the market, desperate to understand how he was doing this. How could he be so… quiet?

Finally, he stopped in an alleyway. She caught up, her chest heaving with nervous energy.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling in the stillness.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at her with eyes that seemed far older than his skin. “You wanted silence,” he said softly. “Now you have it.” The man tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t need to ask. Everyone wants peace from the noise eventually. But there’s a cost.”

“What cost?”

He straightened up, looking at her intensely. “The silence grows. First, it’s the noise of others. Then, it’s your own thoughts. Soon, there’s nothing left. Just silence.”

“No. I don’t want that.”

“It’s already begun,” he said quietly. “Once you notice the silence, it never stops growing.”

Panic surged in her as she turned and hurried away, back into the market, hoping to hear the buzz of other people’s thoughts again. But there was nothing. Just silence.

And in that silence, the faintest sound emerged, as her own voice slipped away. All she could hear was arms coiling around her as she closed her eyes and let herself be pulled into the void.