Clay flicked to the next page.

He ran his finger down the thin parchment and over the ink, dulled and smudged with time. His eyes no longer needed to read the words; by now, he knew them all off by heart.

Every book, every story, a constant reel of characters and lives he'd never get to experience—hundreds of worlds trapped within the confines of leather-bound tomes.

All alone, the only sounds came from above. Waves crashed against the skylights, the ferocity of the water shuddering the domed walls and shaking the tail-flicked plants dangling from the ceiling.

Spurts of white foam sprinkled the edges of the frosted glass, and Clay often imagined those spume as snow, dreaming of a vast winter wonderland waiting to be explored.

But as another wave came and washed away the seafoam, that was all it would ever be.

Imaginary.

He hadn't seen snow in over a century.

Or felt the sun's warmth on his skin or the brush of an autumnal wind through his hair. He missed the moon, its face wide and shining.

Clay glanced at his wrists. He missed his freedom.

Much like his stories, he, too, was bound, brought powerless by the two black cuffs encasing his forearms.

Ancient runes, sewed with threats of gold, detailed the pristine leather of the twin bands—years he'd spent picking at the stitching, cutting away at the old leather.

Steel daggers bent and

br

oke.

Matches burned down to snubs, and broken bottles, still acidic in smell, lay waste, long empty of their toxic liquid. His skin had suffered, blistered and split, brought red and raw by his futile attempts.

Yet, no matter how hard he tried, the cuffs remained intact. Like an impenetrable fortress, he thought; however, rather than keep a powerful force out, it kept one in, locked behind strands of woven gold.

Sighing, Clay slumped in his chair and turned the page. He didn't need the book, but he wanted it, prefered the physicality of it. It gave his hands something else to do and took his mind off—

A thumb-sized spider crawled over Clay's knee.

Weaving through the hairs on Clay’s leg, it skittered to a stop, and as a wave crashed overhead, it lept, swinging on silk to the blanket of moss below.

Clay watched a little envious as the creature hurried over four-leafed clovers, clambered through half-buried scrolls and broken plant pots until it disappeared beneath the arch of an upturned book. What an adventure for such a small spider, Clay thought.

A wave crashed, the hanging plants shook, and Clay picked at the threads of his leather cuffs.

Perhaps one day, someone would find his lamp, his home, his prison beneath the waves of the sea, rub it thrice, and set him free.

But until then, he’d turn the same pages... Read the same stories... Waiting for his own to begin.