Paramount

"Paramount"—The Eternal Music Box
Around dusk, he decided to create the most beautiful music box— One that would be unparalleled in any world.
A dancer like no other, Needing only mahogany wood, A file, A bit of water, And a commitment to crafting— A name unknown.
Seven sunrises and sunsets were enough To shape a wooden box, A stage of mahogany's dance, Set to the colorless symphony Of a hammer meeting strings— Each playing its own melody.
He named it "Paramount."
The mahogany dancer spun, And the old man felt something new— As though its movement defied time, Gifting the nights their fervor And the days their light.
Time passed, And he became so enchanted That he resolved to give "Paramount" a soul— A dancer made of spirit, One capable of communication.
A being That could craft music boxes of its own, Sleep at night, And sometimes, mischievously, Create a silent box or a lidless one, Gifted to the rats of 25th Street.
For this, he required conversion cylinders— Ugly glass tubes Containing nothing but vacuum, electricity, And the chaotic collision Of dense metallic spheres.
He placed "Paramount" inside, Waiting for its beautiful mahogany glow To surrender To pure, white light—its own essence.
Days passed, Months, years— His eyes never left the cylinder.
Yet the change that came Was not the change he had envisioned.
"Paramount" no longer danced From the thrill of his gaze. It swayed only To the discordant strings Of whatever tune had been set the night before— Each string carrying its own story.
No longer did it greet him at sunrise With a grateful smile Or twirl with eternal joy. Instead, Each morning, Its dance Was merely a consequence of the previous night’s test.
Even the mahogany glow had faded. It had not transformed Into the shade of a soul, But into a dark, dull hue— Like an artifact long abandoned in a dusty attic, Tossed aside at the whim of worthlessness.
Once, the world contained only two things— "Paramount" and the music box maker.
Now, the world was filled with everything— Everything except "Paramount" And the old man in love, Who had failed to account for the heart of a wooden dancer In his calculations.
That time was unrepeatable.
A love without elevation spread across all worlds— Except for those two, Who sold it For an unknown price Of an uncertain experiment, Whose results Remain unresolved To this very moment.