Under the veil of silence, an old dragon ghosts his claws over aged parchment. His old eyes scanning its content as the inks shift down over the edges like a bubbling painting.
A cold breeze creeps in through the open window, he lays his head against the pile of hoarded scraps.
On the scroll is a face he hasn't seen in centuries.
The inscriptions paint voices in his head.
A pop sounds besides him, the dragon closes his eyes one final time as another curiously scans over the scroll, absently petting the dragon with a fondness akin to muted depression.
He dreams of sand and a boy with black hair and eyes that cursed the world into imbalance.