The moon hung high, glowing the color of bleached bone.
He stood outside the house at the end of the road. It was said those within would hear the words of a scribe, so here he stood on a frigid autumn evening as the wind whispered to him to come hither onto the trodden path toward the house called Stillness.
The air surrounding was foreboding and so too were the rumors of the inhabitants within. They were called the Listeners, for they never spoke unprovoked but heard many things.
It was said they were intent in their listening; undoubtedly greater was their skill in this than any in the world of men, who are too caught up in the whirlwind of their own motivations, desires, and need to be heard acknowledged, and loved.
At that moment, he knew that he was no different.
If the Listeners would hear him and should respond with acknowledgment of any kind, then it would be a feat to be sure. But if they refused to hear him in the Stillness, what would become of him then? It was a question he couldn't afford to consider now, lest he lose the nerve and any semblance of courage left, for the road had been long.
Despite the fear and anxious pangs dredging deep in his chest he knew he had to try--even if he had to be cloak himself with the familiar false veil of confidence, a cloak to cover the his lack and want.
For beyond the door lay the answers he sought and a longing to be realized. Desire to be quenched and no longer quelled by the soft lullaby of lilting jeers within his own mind.
And so he knocked--awaiting an answer he both feared and needed--beneath pale moon glow.
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