Сергей Широков

At the centre of this space is a needle of deep black rock, glossy as resin, glittering with ice, inscribed with three arcane sigils that hurt to look at. You feel a meaning in their presence: a prohibition, or a commandment. That all things must come to their destined place. That what cannot be delivered immediately must be saved against a future date. That a message that goes unheard is a tragedy. That the signal must be carried, no matter how far, no matter through what darkness, no matter whether the sender still lives nor whether the recipient can even read the language of the writing- The inscription resolves itself and is known to you. NO WORD LOST.