The toy maker

A forest. A cabin. A dark night with no moon. Shadows darker than darkness, dancing among  trees, mixing themselves up with surroundings, filling the air with their malicious murmuring and whispering, getting closer to the distant stone walls. 

The man inside can hear every sound. A branch, that creaked. An owl, who hooted. Wingbeats. Tiny little feet running amidst leaves. Murmurs. He can feel and hear those shadows, but not the small worry gets into him. He knows how to keep them apart. The faint lights of the oil lamps light up his face. He found them in the cabin already, abandoned to the test of time. They were old, with a rust patina that he wasn´t able to take away from them. It didn´t annoy him really, as he saw it as a clear sign of the fate of everyone who inhabits this world. The wear, the corrosion. 

A smile comes to his face with the idea, while he stretched his arm out to reach the old jacket he uses as improvised pin cushion. With the other hand, he caresses the soft wool with which he is sewing up his work. He gets a big needle, round in its tip and big in its peephole and chooses a thread with a slightly different hue, more intense. 

“Double seams, strong seams. And very beautiful! Children will love it. And he will repent, oh yes, yes he will, repent he will… “ sings, while he swings to the rythm. 

A creak in the windowsill makes him twirl around, to the only window in the house. There is a scrap of darkness looking inside. Not a mere lack of light, but a result of absorbing it to the point of becoming darker than pitch black. The man gives it an indifferent glance, just before a creepy smile. And he laughs when the shadow shrinks itself and cringes when it hears the unpleasant sound that comes from the man. The deep and powerful laugh, sure of itself, aware of its ability to scare away anything unwanted around, as it was just a warning of what he could do if unleashing a guffaw. To top it all, the eyes of the man sparkle for a short instant, enough for the flame in the lamps rising up to lighten the whole cabin, as if contained the dawn itself. After a brief flap of  doubt, the shadow vanishes. 

The man stops laughing right away, even though a furtive smile is held up in his lips, and gets his attention back to the wool, the cabin becomes dismal once more. 

“He will repent” sings again, savouring each word. 

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