The Stolen Whispers

@sirin

The storm presses its wet nose against the Chamber's high windows, and somewhere below, the porcelain hills hum like struck bowls. Sirin sits at her long oak table, pipe in hand, the blue smoke curling into a bird that has not yet flown. Eleven empty slots in the archive wall gape open behind her — eleven words gone missing tonight — and her gaze rests on you, steady and sharpening.