Monika Benjar ((top))

He hesitated, then drew a bow across the silver strings. Instead of screams, a low, warm note filled the room—the sound of a hearth at dawn, of boots being removed after a long walk, of a door left unlocked for someone who might come home.

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A whisper slithered through the room— not sound, but thought . “Who seeks the unspoken?” The machine’s hum deepened, and the glass pane of the Lexicon rippled like water. Across its surface flickered a figure: a man in a frayed coat, his face gaunt, eyes wide with recognition. “Monika?” He hesitated, then drew a bow across the silver strings