The lights dimmed to a soft amber glow, as if sunset itself had descended upon the stage. A deep, resonant hum filled the air — not from instruments, not
from
speakers, but from somewhere unseen, something ancient. The audience fell silent, leaning forward instinctively, caught between fear and wonder.
Then, without a word, the man reached into his coat and pulled out a small, weathered book. Its cover was torn, its pages yellowed, edges singed by time. He placed it gently on the floor and touched it with both hands.
And then… everything changed.
The book trembled. The stage beneath him cracked faintly, glowing with thin streams of golden light. Wisps of mist rose around him, curling like living spirits, while faint whispers filled the room — voices from another age, a language no one understood but somehow felt.
