In the dappled light of a late autumn December afternoon, I stumbled upon a relic of magic nestled in a park graced by time-worn oaks. It was a well, or rather what once had been a well, now ingeniously repurposed as a circular picnic table, its surface an intricate mosaic of stone.

As I approached, the air seemed to thrum with an old, earthy song. The well-table, as I came to think of it, was crowned by a roof of shingles now claimed by a tapestry of moss and lichen, speaking to the countless seasons it had witnessed. The oak above, a silent sentinel, spread its bare branches like ancient fingers reaching for stories yet to be told.

I seated myself at the table, tracing the cool, uneven stones with my fingertips, feeling the pulse of long-forgotten enchantments. The table was at once part of the land and a standalone marvel, a chalice of memories brimming with the echo of laughter and whispers of the unnamed.

As the light waned, giving way to the embrace of twilight, the air shimmered subtly, as if the veil between worlds grew thin. It was then I sensed the faintest glow emanating from the well-table, a luminescence that seemed to come from within the stone itself. I could almost hear the faint melody of their nocturnal dance, a blur in the corner of my eye.

Around the table, the shadows of children played, their merriment feeding the slumbering magic, ensuring it lingered, a quiet guardian of joy and wonder. And in that hushed moment, as the sky painted itself in strokes of crimson and amber, the well-table whispered its tales. It spoke of wishes made under a hunter’s moon, of secret gatherings in the embrace of night, and of the timeless dance of the natural and the mystical.

I sat there, a solitary audience to the well-table’s murmurs, feeling an inexplicable connection to the ages it had seen pass. In the well-table’s presence, I was a keeper of its lore, a participant in the unfolding tapestry of its existence.

As darkness settled, with bold stars alive in the canopy of night, the well-table’s glow deepened, a soft beacon in the encroaching night. And I, under the watchful eye of the oak, remained—a solitary figure at the crossroads of reality and fable, witnessing the enduring ballet of wonder that spun around this enchanted table.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved