The time was twenty to eleven. Starlight danced from the sky, illuminating the town below. In the day, sunlight highlighted bright turquoise and jolly yellow and shining emerald hues. At night, the stars chose bloody scarlets and blackness. The palace was as it had been every twenty to eleven in memorable history: dull, ethereal, vacant, and soundless. As far as anyone knew, the palace had always been dull, ethereal, vacant, and soundless. No one knew who built it or who abandoned it. No one cared. Well, that’s not entirely factual. A man by the name of Scemo had once cared. And the palace was not as it had been every twenty to eleven o’clock in memorable history. The starlight was the same—picking only the darkest elements to illuminate. The walls were the same—still strong and forceful and deterring to all. However, something was still unlike the countless nights before. For just below the sill of a shattered palace window stood a hooded cloak that the wall had failed to deter. The cloak was zealous and ruthless and resolute. It hoisted itself into the room, unnoticing of the remnants of a scarlet window pane. In the memorable past, the palace never appreciated visitors. For a few years, the palace was absolutely closed to all until one particular visitor broke into it. Ah, him. He is dear to my heart, yet absolutely unwelcome at the…show more content… In the shadowy night, all that could be perceived by a human eye were the gleaming brass instruments of an antique clock and a distorted North Star in the shards of fiery glass. If the cloak had been only a bit more perceptive, he could have seen the fear in the eyes of the thousand ghosts that twirled around him. The palace itself reeked of demise. The cloak continued, marveling at the unmoving brassy clock. The cloak needed not to worry, for he was surely the only one here. The next rooms were similarly obscured and thereby, colorless. In the dark everything is black after
