Forgotten by its mother and abandoned by its father it was a lonely thing made of silver needles and deep indigo eyes filled with stars.   

  Having pity on it, they hid it in a box of mirrors so it wouldn’t be lonely and they wouldn’t have to listen to it cry itself to sleep. It was well hidden and content. They say it would even purr on occasion when a ray of light would slip between cracks in the mirrors, so all was fine and well with the thing in the box until the day they lost it. 

                …

    It was a curious brooch that she wore. They say it was given to her by a young suitor that gave it to her as a promise for an engagement ring. He died in the war, and never bought her a ring, but she wore the brooch in his memory. 

  Some days she wore it on the brim of her hat coddled amongst a bunch of feathers, others it say starkly on the lapel of her waistcoat prickly and glistening in silver shivers and iridescent blues. 

   She loved the strange burr of a brooch. She swore that it seemed to sing to her and would sound like the voice of the young man that gave it to her. Her heart longed for him and when she’d place the strange silvered burr into the mirrored box he’d given it to her in, often she would cry. 

                    …..

    

    Sometimes silence is absence, and the day finally came when they noticed the thing was missing and they began to look for it. 

               ….

    The shop was old and filled with obscurities and oddities. The mirrored box arrived one day in package of the remaining unsold effects of a certain deceased woman with no next of kin. 

    He’d run the store for so long he was as much a piece of bric-à-brac as any other item in the collection of memories for sale. 

    What was another package of an unsold estate items, but something to be stuck on a shelf in a back room to be opened later for anything of value. 

    It was near closing on a dull Wednesday afternoon, when the clouds were skittish, and the sun greasy, and sales as cold as the half finished cup of afternoon tea that he heard a tiny mournful weeping coming from the back room. 

                ……

   There are cracks between coiled universes. Edges of angles that don’t quite fit in the shadows of corners where straight lines merge with the geometry of a curved world.

   That’s how they heard the thing crying, and that’s how the emissary they sent found its way into the storage room, that’s how the emissary planned to take the thing home once it found whatever it was imprisoned in. At least it was until the shop owner walked into the store room and found himself face to face with the emissary. 

   Something with far too many teeth and arms hissed as it ripped apart everything on every shelf in the storage room throwing them around looking for something. 

  Thinking he’d walked into his own nightmare the shopkeeper backed out immediately but not before grabbing the package closest to to door from which came the strange crying. 

.,,,