Eryshae

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Sam

Sam Faeloc sat hunched at his desk, fingers tapping a pen against a stack of untouched reports. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow that drained the room of any warmth. Around him, the muffled hum of keyboards and the occasional cough filled the air like a monotonous symphony. It was another afternoon in an endless loop of afternoons; each one blurring into the next.

The office was a maze of beige dividers and faded motivational posters, their slogans long stripped of meaning. Sam's cubicle, though slightly more personalized than the others, betrayed a quiet yearning. A chipped figurine of a woolly mammoth stood sentinel on his desk, its tusks worn smooth from years of idle fidgeting. Beside it, a coffee mug emblazoned with Ancient Civilizations Club now served as a pen holder. The club had dissolved a decade ago, along with much of Sam's ambition.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the single window at the far end of the office. Outside, the city sprawled in muted grays, the skyline blurred by haze. His reflection stared back; thirty years old, dark circles under tired eyes, a perpetual furrow to his brow. Once-bright eyes dulled by routine and unmet dreams.

That evening, Sam returned to a cluttered apartment that mirrored the disarray in his mind. The dim light of a desk lamp cast long shadows over shelves overflowing with books on archaeology and ancient history. Dusty replicas of arrowheads, fossils, and pottery fragments were strewn among them; remnants of a passion left to wither.

He dropped his bag by the door and slumped onto a worn couch. Unopened mail littered the coffee table beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The television sat silent in the corner, its blank screen a reflection of his current state. Sam didn't bother turning it on. The quiet suited him.

Above the bookshelf hung a faded poster of an excavation site in Utah. Its curled corners and sun-bleached image spoke of better days; a college dig when dreams still felt within reach. Back then, he had imagined himself traveling the world, uncovering secrets buried in the earth. Now those dreams felt like artifacts themselves.

He picked up a familiar book from the table: The Mystery of the Younger Dryas. Flipping through it absently, he felt the pull of old curiosity. The Younger Dryas had always fascinated him; an abrupt, enigmatic period of climate change that reshaped the Earth. But what once inspired wonder now only emphasized how far he'd drifted from that world.

He closed the book and stared at the ceiling. "What happened to me?" he muttered.

The question hung unanswered in the still air as he drifted into restless sleep; unaware that everything was about to change.

The next day, Sam stepped off the bus into the city's pulse; traffic, chatter, movement all around. People brushed past him, absorbed in their own lives, their expressions blank. He no longer tried to connect. Life had become a routine of silence, the world's noise amplifying the hollowness inside him.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The museum appeared ahead, nestled between looming office towers. It looked forgotten; stone steps weathered by time, a wooden door faded and creaking on its hinges. A tarnished plaque read: The Natural History and Prehistory Museum. The words were nearly illegible, like a whisper from a past the city had long since ignored.

Inside, the air smelled of old wood and dust. Dim lights flickered along walls lined with yellowed posters of extinct creatures and ancient ruins. The floor creaked beneath his steps, as if the building itself stirred at his presence.

An elderly woman sat at the front desk, hunched over a crossword puzzle. She didn't look up when he entered. Her hand moved methodically, the tip of her pencil scratching softly on the page.

"Good afternoon," Sam offered quietly.

She gave a vague nod, eyes never leaving the puzzle.

He wandered deeper into the museum, each step echoing in the empty space. Exhibits stood in quiet neglect; brittle placards, dusty cases, faded displays. Yet something stirred in Sam, a flicker of familiarity. This was the world he had once loved.

He paused before a reconstructed saber-toothed cat skeleton, its massive fangs glinting in the dim light. It loomed like a ghost from another age, frozen mid-snarl. Sam studied its form; predatory, ancient, magnificent. The predators always fascinated him most. The saber-tooths. The dire wolves. The creatures that once ruled.

Down another hallway, he found a display of stone tools; scrapers, blades, spearpoints. The placards were cracked and hard to read, but Sam didn't need them. He knew what they were. These were the tools of survival. Of resilience. Of carving existence from a hostile world.

His feet carried him onward, into a smaller, darker room. A worn placard read: The Mystery of the Younger Dryas. Sam's pulse quickened.

The room was sparsely furnished; just a few exhibits, and a map of the world during the Younger Dryas. He traced its ice-covered contours with a finger, imagining the cold, the upheaval, the shift in everything. He'd read every theory; comet strikes, volcanic eruptions, freshwater disruptions; but no definitive answers. Just mystery.

Then he saw it.

Half-buried in the shadows at the far corner of the room, a sphere about the size of a fist rested on its pedestal. Unlike the other dusty exhibits, it seemed alive.

Its surface was flawless, black as obsidian yet not static; etched with delicate lines that shifted like constellations sliding across a night sky. Light bent strangely against it, as though the patterns moved in a rhythm all their own.

Sam's breath caught. He stepped closer, unable to blink. A low vibration stirred the air, not sound exactly, but a pressure that prickled his skin and set his teeth on edge.

Mine, a whisper coiled inside his skull. Not words, not really. A hunger. A claiming. He imagined cradling it.

The placard was useless: "Unknown origin. Found at a remote dig site. Date and exact location of discovery unknown."

His fingertips tingled. The carvings seemed to shift when he looked at them, rearranging into shapes that pressed at the edge of memory; spears, spirals, stars.

Take. Hold. Belong.

The hum deepened, sinking into his bones. His chest ached with it, as if his own heartbeat had fallen into step with the thing's pulse. He knew he shouldn't. Knew this was theft, madness. And yet… he couldn't remember the last time anything had wanted him back.

His hand lifted. The glass felt hot beneath his palm, heat blooming up his arm. The display latch gave way with a faint metallic click.

The orb was weightless in his hand. And warm. Too warm. Almost alive.

The whispers surged.

Ours.

Sam slipped it under his jacket, heart hammering. The museum around him seemed to tilt, shadows lengthening, the air too thin. By the time he reached the door, the world outside felt quieter, dimmer; like everything except the sphere had been drained of color.

The receptionist didn't look up.

Outside, the sunlight hit him like a wave, but it felt muted. Dim. The orb's presence was heavier now, its weight more than physical.

As Sam stepped onto the sidewalk, the city wavered. Traffic noise dulled, colors dimmed, edges blurred. For a breathless instant, the world bent around him; and then snapped back. No one else seemed to notice. But the orb pulsed against his chest, its rhythm now his own.