The Messenger

The messenger arrived at the manor at the hour when afternoon begins to loosen its grip on the day. The road had been long and quiet, winding through hedgerows and fields that breathed softly beneath a pale sky. Dust clung to the hems of their coat. The parcel rested in the crook of their arm, wrapped in dark paper and sealed with a ribbon the color of old wine. No one answered the gate. The manor stood still behind iron bars and ivy-covered walls, its windows reflecting nothing but clouds drifting lazily above. No carriage in the driveway. No footsteps on the gravel.

The messenger waited. He sat upon the low stone wall beside the gate and listened to the soft hush of wind moving through the tall grasses. Somewhere far off, a crow called once and then thought better of it. Time passed. The parcel grew strangely warm in their hands. At first, the messenger thought it was only the warmth of his palms, but the heat deepened slowly, like the breath of something sleeping beneath the wrapping.

You may open it.

The voice was quiet. Not heard, exactly. Not spoken, either. It arrived in the messenger’s thoughts the way a memory does. He straightened. The road behind them remained empty. The manor’s windows stared blankly back.

“Hello?” the messenger said aloud, half expecting a servant to appear from the side path. Nothing answered. The parcel shifted faintly in his hands. You may open it, the voice said again, patient as moonlight.

The messenger hesitated only a moment before pulling the ribbon loose. The paper peeled back easily, as though it had been waiting. Inside the parcel lay a single stone. It was smooth and pale, no larger than a small loaf of bread, its surface carved with thin, winding letters that glimmered faintly as the light shifted. The messenger turned it over, curious.

The inscription curved across the stone in elegant script. He leaned closer. And without thinking, he read aloud: 

Do not read these words aloud.

The moment the final syllable left his lips, the wind stopped. Completely. The fields fell silent as though the world had drawn in a breath. “Oh,” the messenger murmured.

Too late.

The stone pulsed once in his hands. The ground before the gate rippled softly, like water disturbed by a falling leaf. Three circles of light, portals, opened in the air. The first shimmered with silver mist, cool and quiet as winter dawn. The second burned softly with amber light, warm and golden like the last hour of evening. The third was dark as deep water, its edges glimmering with faint stars. The messenger stood very still. The stone in their hands had grown warm again.

You have called the doors, the voice said gently.

“I didn’t mean to,” the messenger whispered.

Few ever do.

The wind returned in a quiet breath that stirred the grass. The portals waited. None moved. None flickered. They simply existed. Patient.

The voice spoke again, softer now. You may go where the paths divide.

The messenger looked back toward the empty road. The manor gate remained closed. No rider approached. No lanterns flickered to life in the windows. Perhaps no one had ever been meant to receive the parcel at all.

The messenger looked again at the three open doors - the silver mist, the amber light, and the quiet stars. 

His heart beat slowly and curiously, not with fear, but with the strange pull of a story that has already begun. “Which one?” he asked. The stone warmed in his palms.

The one you wish to know.

The messenger smiled faintly. Then, without quite knowing why, he stepped forward toward the voice. And the moment his foot crossed the threshold of light, the wind carried the last quiet whisper from the stone: Deliveries rarely end where they are meant to.

​​Disclaimer: This story is an original work of fiction written by Sunday Bloo.

© 2026 Sunday Bloo. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed, or adapted without written permission from the author.