#allegory

Within the dark penetralia of the human soul, where fear of the unknown festers and finds its deepest dwelling, there stood a town named Desdemon. Hidden among towering pines, shrouded in perpetual mist, its days were sunless, its nights without dawn. The air was frigid and damp, steeped with whispered tales of cosmic dread, as though even the churning fog carried secrets too terrible for the tongue.

Orson had a mind like no other. He could be shown a craft once, just once, then repeat it with a precision that startled his mentors. The carpenter on Ellis Street had only to demonstrate the carving of a dovetail, and Orson’s hands would shape that exact cut as though he’d been doing it his whole life. The carpenter peered over his shoulder, frowning. “That’s some fluke,” he muttered. “Took me months to cut like that.”