The Obsidian Shard

Myth

The sky was once a single stone. It was a mirror of obsidian, polished to a depth that swallowed the wind. There was no light, only the reflection of the void. The world beneath it lived in a grey sleep, dreaming of a sun that had not yet been carved. The Artisan came with a hammer of white quartz. He did not seek to destroy, but to find. Deep within the black glass, the face of the Creator remained hidden. It was the only truth in a universe of shadows. The Artisan believed that if he could isolate the reflection, the world would wake. He struck the zenith. The sound was a thunder that broke the silence of a thousand ages. The obsidian mirror did not merely crack; it exploded. Shards of black glass flew upward, piercing the emptiness. They did not fall. They hung in the air, catching a light that had no source. These were the first stars: jagged, cold, and distant. The Artisan wept. He had traded a perfect mirror for a million broken sparks. He spent the eons walking the velvet dark, climbing ladders of starlight to reach the furthest fragments. He touched each one with trembling fingers. He looked into each silver point, searching for the curve of a lip, the line of a brow, the depth of a divine eye. Most shards showed only the Artisan himself: a tired man with dust in his beard. Some showed the emptiness of the deep. Others showed the ghosts of things that had not yet happened. He continues his journey still. Every time a star falls, it is the Artisan casting aside a fragment that failed him. He searches for the one piece of obsidian that still holds the true face. Until then, the night remains a broken thing, beautiful only because it is shattered.