Beneath the earth,
the vault waits,
silent, heavy,
its iron skin cold against the weight of time.
It could be anything—
a cradle of lost hopes,
the bones of forgotten saints,
or a vessel for the dark.
No light touches its door,
no hand has traced its rusted seams for centuries.
Perhaps it holds a soul,
trapped between worlds,
or the echoes of prayers whispered
too late for salvation.
Maybe it is empty,
a hollow echo of what once was,
or could have been,
its emptiness more haunting than any relic.
The air above it stirs,
as if remembering,
as if something still lingers.
Not a body, not a treasure—
but the weight of all that could have been.
The vault is a question,
and no answer will ever suffice.
This is A Vault...
YOU ARE READING
The Vault
General FictionA plethora of short stories, poems, and unfinished works by yours truly.
