The Tower of Song

On a clear day, if the conditions were just right and the air was the correct temerature, you could feel it from as far away as ten miles. It wasn’t a sound from that far away. No, rather, it was a low vibration that you felt. First, stirring the fine hairs on your arms like static electricity and then, as you got closer, chattering the teeth in the back of your mouth. And then, closer, it turned into one of the most perfect, crystaline strings of notes that a person has ever heard.

Nobody knew why, really.

But all of the sound originated in one place, and that was the tower. It was old – decrepit, even. There were no windows, only two shallow squares cut into the stones on the north face. There was nothing at all remarkable about it.

Ah, but the sound. The sound was the most gorgeous thing.

There was a small door, at the base of the structure. It was made of wood, but was surprisingly solid. A large iron lock guarded the enterance. And it was said that only one person held the key.

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