the smuggler’s bible

Rhombus

Rhombus remembers, of course. He remembers the forest and the doorway—in such an odd place, he thinks—and the voices on the other side.

But these memories are useless, good only for illuminating slightly the curve of the negative space in his mind. The Thing That Is Missing is shaped like a keyhole, and it grows larger, larger, larger as he approaches crouched and careful of every footfall.

Rhombus takes a deep breath. He leans closer, peers through. Inside is something that flares with red light and agony as it is removed together with the eye which saw it.