Heirloom

Immortals Only

Image


A scholar. A tourist. More tourists. A family. A frustrated mother. The crowd's faces reflected off of the display glass. How much time had passed now? It did not know. Perhaps it did not care. Within the gold of it's surface it had seen many faces, some more memorable than others, and in it's lifetime it had come to know more secrets than we could ever imagine.

After decades of adventure, it had finally settled, and now no one could even price it. Instead of a price label, it had been given a name; an identity. It looked out of its display case with indifference, taking little heed of the passersby who cared little for such small trinkets. Indeed, they came for the more notorious displays: the works of Van Gogh, Seurat, and the like. It did not mind, however, for it had never known fame in its humble outgoings.

Sometimes, perhaps, someone would stop and wonder at its fine markings and embellishments, and ponder at how its bristles became so tousled, though none proved quite as charming as the little girl who now stood quietly before it, silently admiring its innocent beauty. The girl was small and daydreaming, and pressed the palms of her hands lightly against the looking glass. After a little while, one of her hands withdrew, and instead began to twirl to loose curls of her hair which fell over her shoulder. Her left hand, as unpractised as it was at moving, began to brush her fingertips against the glass, tracing the delicate shapes of the golden brush.