The boy in the labyrinth hums. An old tune. A tune from a long dream. A dream with beasts, filled with the odor of cumin and turmeric. A yellowed melody heard from somewhere but he cannot remember, having spent so many days looking at the sky, losing his place in the maze. Smells of earth, thick and autumnal. And the soft red spiral wound around his wrist. The red yarn of his spent spool twangs its own nag in the hollows of the underworld. Perhaps, the boy thinks, the note breathed into its knots and tangles will sound out a path. Minor chords. An elegy. A dirge by one who moved by darkness, drawn to its black possibility.