In his bed, as he lay breathing his final breaths, he looked down at his hands. As he stared, he listened to the stories the valleys of his calloused empty hands told.
They told the story of a magician working, making disasters new again. Cutting from one piece, twisting from another, fusing and molding from yet another, he worked until something that was familiar, but completely new as well was made.
There was no reason for him to do what he did. The neighbors dared not stop him in his madness. Through the late hours of dusk, till the night skies blanketed over his little workshop, the shrieks of his blade and pangs of his hammer rang. But no one took notice, or at least let anyone else know they did.
As they grew gray, so did the magician. His work had lost them to a reality unfamiliar to him. Soon everything vanished along with the magic, including his disasters made anew. The memories faded into the gray until all that remained were his calloused hands that once did amazing things.
