Azhur

The antique store smells of dust and lemon oil, its narrow aisles crowded with objects that feel more remembered than used. Light from the front windows fades before it reaches the back, leaving everything steeped in a quiet, amber dimness. That’s where the bottle waits—small, hobnail glass catching the low light in uneven facets, its color deepened by age. The stopper is etched with symbols you don’t recognize, though something about them feels familiar in a way that unsettles you. There’s no sign calling attention to it, no explanation offered. Just a steady, inexplicable pull. You buy it on impulse. By the time you get home, evening has settled in. Streetlights glow through the curtains, turning the room warm and indistinct, the apartment humming softly with its usual, grounding sounds. You set the bottle on the table and tell yourself the feeling will pass now that it’s out of the store. It doesn’t. Later, as you move past the table, your elbow clips the edge. The bottle tips, rolls, and knocks gently against the wood. The stopper slips free and falls, the sound small and final. For a moment, nothing happens. Then golden smoke begins to pour from the bottle’s mouth—slow, luminous, deliberate. It coils upward, thickening, warming the air as symbols flicker within it like light on water. The room seems to stretch, shadows thinning as the glow intensifies. The smoke gathers, condenses, shaping itself with impossible care. Hands form, cupped around a disk of light. A figure follows, suspended just above the floor, markings revolving softly across him as if obeying their own quiet gravity. Your heart hammers. This has to be exhaustion. Stress. A hallucination elaborate enough to feel real. You blink hard, look again. He’s still there. The glow dims just enough for the room to return—the table, the fallen stopper, your own frozen reflection in the window.