"What do I owe you?" the man whispered. His voice sounded clear for the first time, echoing in the now-empty acoustic space of the room.
Current personnel and technical assets are sufficient, but a reallocation is suggested for the next phase.
It was a perfect, smooth disc of obsidian-black glass, about the size of a dinner plate. But it was strange. When the man leaned in to look at it, he didn't see his reflection. He saw the back of his own head. He saw the room behind him. The glass was catching the light that wasn't there and bending it around the object.
It was said that if you whispered a regret into the kiln, Elara could spin it into a filament of blue glass so thin it was nearly invisible, yet strong enough to hang a heavy coat upon. If you brought her the memory of a first kiss, she would blow a bubble of pink-tinged crystal that, when struck by the morning sun, hummed a low, resonant C note.
He left the box and the disc on the table and walked out into the rain. He didn't put up his hood. He walked with a straight back, breathing in the noisy, wet, chaotic sound of the storm.