Reawakening

The silence is shattered by a loud thump, a squeaky grinding of small metal gears. Hinges creak, and a needle of light pierces the darkness. Gossamer veils of dust disturbed by the currents of air rent by the swinging door swirl and dance in the light as it swings by in lazy swaths.

Footsteps further invade, reducing the silence to momentary pauses between movements, between breaths of noise. Tentative, searching, the footsteps and the swinging shaft of light work in tandem. The illuminating beam alternates between sweeping arcs and focused aim as the eyes of its holder find things of interest in its gaze.

"Here we go," a lone, lonely voice mutters, its vibrations muted by the darkness and dust. "This could be it."

The brilliant shaft lands upon a jumbled pile of words. Footsteps become determined as the intruder focuses his attention on the words.

"Uh huh!" he mutters. He trains the light on trove he has found.

The words make no sense as they are. It is just a pile of words — thoughts, mostly; unrelated ideas brought up by circumstance, by meditation, or by random chance, but left here in hopes of being used some day, if their father ever returned.

The light reflects brightly off of something at the bottom of the pile. The holder of the light trains his tool and his eyes on the glinting thing: the edge of a tray or some other sort of receptacle. A hand gently pushes the words to one side revealing a set of dust-covered letters set in place by time, by some long-forgotten promise to give these few letters meaning, to give them audience.

"YES!" the voice pants, certainty resonating. A hand reaches down. Fingers touch tentatively the dust-covered letters. Then, with the reverence of a seasoned archaeologist, the hand brushes the dust from the letters and reveals them to the light, to his eyes:

FARRAGO!

Jubilation erupts from his vocal chords. At last, at LAST!

Without warning, the room is suddenly awash with a light without source, as though this discovery had awakened Light and now Light was aware its father had returned. He takes in his surroundings. What he had remembered as a tiny closet with a few interesting artifacts is in reality a vast, cavernous warehouse full of information, of intense thought, of wild imaginings, of whim, whimsy, passion and pain, and he knows that it is his renewed task to share as much of this information as he can with the world.

"Well," he says to himself. "Time to get to work... but maybe a nap first."



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