No Words

The rain was hitting the stained glass panes of the musical instrument shop. The moon even hid from sights of people and complete darkness was embracing this lonely place. Jesse kept his fingers on the sill, immersing himself in the chill as he could. The light bell on the door made a weird sound, accompanied with a wet, ominous wind blowing into the room of antique beauty and the smell of rain and fresh blood. Jesse did not move: he kept his hands near the window. A young man was standing there, staring at a small black pistol at Jesse's chest. That man was breathing extremely hard while his eyes look over the instruments wildly like a trapped beast. He’s escaping, Jesse silently claimed.

But before he could harm Jesse, the door pushed open again. A taller man stumbled inside, dragging one foot. He was holding his side, and dark blood was soaking through his gray coat, Jesse noticed. The two unexpected guests looked at each other, then both looked at Jesse again. Jesse sat containedly still behind the counter, mute.

The smell of copper doubled, he sensed. A dozen pendulums on the back wall were beating in their special rhythms just like before. Tick. A grandfathers’ clock in mahogany, two seconds slow, he heard. Tick. Young men, he thought. A brass portable clock, five seconds fast, he heard. They held the room together while the two strangers still stare at each other awkwardly.

Then Jesse took a glance at the wounded man like a cracked soundboard, a broken yet persisting string. The man’s face was terribly gray, leaning his heavy shoulder against a wooden display case of old violins. In his eyes, there was only a cold, hard sight. The silence pervaded and occupied the entire shop gradually. The only sound was still the ticking of clocks on the walls. Jesse is hearing: the clocks are talking. He never screams — he hadn't used his vocal cords since the accident happened forty years ago, and a man never looks for tools discarded such long ago. The wounded man slowly pulled his hand from his coat: he didn’t have a weapon; instead, he was holding a thick, leather-covered notebook. That is a very ordinary notebook, likely containing some trivial notes and gossips, but he placed it carefully on the glass counter in front of Jesse.

"Hide it, quick," the wounded man whispered to Jesse, hoarsely. Jesse could hear a sneaking and horrifying tone. "Don’t let him get the book..."

The young man with the gun spat on the wooden floor, drawing Jesse turn to him while he took a step forward. Jesse saw that the barrel of the man’s gun shifted from Jesse’s chest and pointed straight at the wounded man’s head. Jesse looked down the blood: he knew he could not call for help and he couldn’t. After several minutes, considering every choice, Jesse moved, reached out, placed his palm over the wet leather of the notebook and maintained the silence within the room, slowly at all. He then looked at the gun, next the dying man, and executed the choice.