Wax dripped below the tiny flames and trailed down the long waxy stems to settle in place like hardened lava. In the candlelight, there sat a boy dressed in dark robes. His eyes were fixed on a piece of parchment as he stuck his tongue out in concentration. His small hands slowly and carefully dipped a large quill into an inkwell and brought it back to the parchment. His fingers turned white as he tightened his grip and began to strike characters unto its empty surface.
The moon peeked through the lone empty window and spread a pale blue light across the floor in a perfect square. The trees whipped around outside causing the window to intermittently shake as if the wind were knocking on it and trying capture the boy's attention. Despite the wind's best efforts, the boy's thoughts remained unbroken as his quill continued to scratch across the paper purposefully.
The boy was writing about an extraordinarily strange dream he had the night before. There was a bespeckled man sitting by a frosted window, watching as snow slowly danced down from the wintry-clouds above. He had a square book-like item in his lap and a tapping sound could be heard as his fingers danced over what could only be described as small misplaced piano keys. An astounding light emanated from the flat music-less piano and reflected in his glasses.
The man continued to make the tapping sounds with random pauses in-between where he would suddenly stop and stare out the window to watch the winter storm. The boy thought that the music the man was trying to make by tapping his fingers was terrible - there was no reason or consistent rhythm to it. The boy finished writing his story, let out a sigh and sat back in his chair. He wondering what it all meant.
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