Chronicles of Mystery

Prologue: A red envelope

Once upon a mystery...

With his right hand with three fingers gleaming with the brilliance of steel, he wrote of his finest writing on the yellow and rough paper which he stroked with his left palm as if to feel the docility under his hand. He had already lived this moment, yet he seemed more alive each time. He noticed new elements each time, concentrating on the tiny fibers constituting the letter, the pale dust particles circulating in the ghostly light of the lamp that stuttered, creating an intermittent shine, as well as a strange melody played by a musician pressing the keys at various intervals. He could not help but tap the lacquered wooden table to follow the rhythm that the lamp dictated to him. His fingers tightened on the cold of the fountain pen, passing and ironing on its delicate surface, like a glass sculpture, furrowed with tiny traces that he enjoyed deciphering. Why did he choose this pencil among all? Who gave it to him? Where did it come from? It was a very recent model, it seemed to him, one that prevented ink leakage. He liked it. He had written with so much in his life that he had become accustomed to holding anything between his fingers. The color wanted to imitate the wood, a brown tinged with black lines, like comets crossing the pen. The point stretched out after being brought delicately by several golden circles, pointed and ruthless, he wondered what effect it would have if it were to be used as a weapon. Instead of ink, blood would flow down that bird's beak. An owl, the face of an owl, reminded him. The metal was delicately engraved, with a gold hem, while the silver center was decorated with cogs that seemed two fingers to move and a clock marking a stopped time. A time lost in the meanders of centuries and mysteries that littered them. With his other hand, he grasped the cork. A bird sailing on it. An eagle, more precisely. Who had the irony to engrave such a bird on this pen? Ah, yes, it was him. It was hilarious. But, little pen, where did it come from? This delicate branch was lost, without a tree to find, a story to tell. Little bud, what would it produce? It was speculation of the future, not of the moment. He could say nothing, but suppose. His favorite game. Suppose. Like on a chessboard. Or like in a garden, planting seeds and hoping they eventually grow. Yes, he was the chess player who cultivated his pieces before placing them on the board he had created. He looked at his letter again. Had he signed? His gaze was lost in the ink that the paper had drunk like a thirsty old man, coloring itself forever with the murmurs of the branch pen, the little sparrow who was singing. He remembered the scratching of the paper under the attacks of the pen which walked like a wild cat making its claws, screeching and squeaking, like the whistle of the wind come to smell a song. He put the letter in an envelope. A red envelope. Red. Red against her blue. It was her little gift. Let the game begin! Yes, come, come, little angel, little white bird, come and dance! You who have no wings, you who fly all the same, you who do not know anvils or obstacles, you that time does not challenge and that the wind guides on your path. You who sing to the world in your language and who dream of clouds and skies up there, show to this earth what your whole head is made of, you who dream the world upside down, the memories in the bush, and the beauty in your eyes. You who hear colors and see emotions. Yours forever is the beginning and the end of our correspondence. Let the game begin! Yes, it has begun. For the hour of mysteries has come. See you soon, Lucy.