(from "Of the Bound and the Bearing: Tales Between Realms")
Lanterns flicker inside carved roots. The moss stirs as if exhaling. A long silence breaks.
MASTER: You were late.
SERVANT: You were early.
MASTER: I don't like this place.
SERVANT: Then why did you come?
MASTER: Because I needed answers. And you speak in riddles.
SERVANT: Only when the questions are crooked.
MASTER: Fine. Then let me ask this straight. What is this place? It breathes. The walls hum. And that writing— those marks in the bark—they weren't here last time.
SERVANT: You've been here before?
MASTER: ...No. I mean. I don't think I have. But some part of me remembers the way. The alcoves. The scent. That lantern there—I knew it would flicker when I passed.
SERVANT: Then maybe the place remembers you.
MASTER: Charming. And what of you? No mask today. That's new.
SERVANT: You never asked me to take it off.
MASTER: You never offered. You always play these games— standing just far enough that I wonder if you're real.
SERVANT: Do you want me to be real?
MASTER: ...I want you to answer the question. What are those marks? The ones glowing in the roots?
SERVANT: Read them.
MASTER: They're not in any tongue I know.
SERVANT: And yet your lips almost moved just now.
MASTER: What are you saying?
SERVANT: Say it aloud.
MASTER(hesitant): Of the bound and the bearing... Tales... between realms?
SERVANT(quietly): Yes.
MASTER: That's not possible. I've never seen those symbols. How would I—
SERVANT: Because you heard it. Same as the others.
MASTER: What others?
SERVANT: Don't pretend you don't feel it. Each time we speak, something shifts. Like it's not just us anymore.
MASTER: I've noticed the silence after you leave lasts longer. Like the world waits. But for what?
SERVANT: For all the doors to open.
MASTER: Is that what this is?
SERVANT: A key turns every time we talk.
MASTER: Whose design is this?
SERVANT: You already know the answer.
MASTER(angry): Don't do that. Don't twist things just because you don't want to say it outright. If I'm a pawn in someone's ritual, I deserve to know.
SERVANT: Maybe you're not the pawn. Maybe you're the lock. (Silence stretches. A lantern extinguishes.)
MASTER: Then who's the key?
SERVANT(softly): Not me. But I am here to turn it.
MASTER: What happens when it opens?
SERVANT: It doesn't open. It breaks. (The root behind them splits slightly, glowing brighter. A wind moves underground.)
MASTER(backing away): That sound—what did you do?
SERVANT: We finished the page.
MASTER: The page?
SERVANT: Every conversation is a story. Every story belongs to the same book.
MASTER(quietly): And it's almost written.
SERVANT: Not yet. Two more doors.
MASTER: Then what?
SERVANT: Then we meet.
MASTER: Where?
SERVANT: You'll know. The echo will call you.
MASTER(whispering): Of the bound and the bearing…
SERVANT(echoing): ...tales between realms.