Kael
I knew what it was before I opened the box.
The person who delivered it had left without a word, as if even the act of handing it over required a kind of reverence no one wished to disturb. It sat just inside my door where I had placed it, wrapped in dark paper and bound with a black cord, carrying a weight that seemed somehow disproportionate to its size.
For several minutes I only stood there looking at it.
Then I brought it to the table by the window and carefully cut the binding.
Inside, nested in velvet, was an urn.
Silver and black, understated but beautiful, its surface etched with old moon-knotwork worked so finely it almost seemed woven into the metal. Near the lid, a crescent had been engraved in relief, simple enough not to feel ceremonial, deliberate enough to feel i
