I used to explore the catacombs underneath the city. They held many wonders, some positive, most deadly. In my decade of exploring this underground passage ways, I’ve never seen a room like the one I’m about it talk about.

The door was different from the others around it, engraved with marking worn away over time, and as I walked into the room I noticed a desk full with clutter. Everything on the old rickety wooden desk seemed to be ancient. There was a crimson red telephone alongside an old bronze compass and a pocket watch that was somehow still ticking. There were rough rosette brown keys and tools, rusted to the point you can’t see the delicate silver underneath. And in the middle of it all was something I did not recognize. Placed atop a book was something neither small nor big, something with such an intricate design that I feared it would rub off if I were too pick it up. I was so captivated by it’s labyrinth like design that I failed to notice the long handle protruding from a short piece of metal standing erect atop the object. I picked up the object, acutely aware of the slightly rubbed off arrangement of lines and curves. I observed that it had a shape similar to that of a tall bud vase with its slightly bulbous base and thick tall neck, with the only difference being that unlike a vase this perfectly fit into the palm of my hand. The palm of my hand was dusted with with the coppery shimmer of the chilled object alongside the metallic odour of pure metal. Handling it with care, I continued to moved the cold object around in my hand, trying to determine what purpose it held. It felt wrong to leave the object to be taken or broken by another, so I gently wrapped it in soft cloth that I kept in my bag alongside with the book it sat upon.

Many decades later and I still have it sitting in a safe place.