"The Stained-Glass Concerto" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
"There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that's your own self."
~Aldous Huxley
The city of Vespera was a place of clocks.
Clock towers marked the hours. Clockmakers were respected artisans. Time governed the factories, the markets, the churches, and the lives of its citizens.
It was also a city of secrets.
In the spring of 1926, Elias Moreau kept many of them.
At thirty-two, he was regarded as one of the finest clockmakers in the region. His small workshop occupied a narrow lane behind the cathedral square. By day he repaired pocket watches and grandfather clocks. By night he sat beside oil lamps, restoring ancient mechanisms whose creators had long since vanished into history.
He was handsome in a quiet way—dark-haired, thoughtful, with steady hands and eyes that always seemed to be searching for something beyond what others could see.
The city knew him as a craftsman.
The city did not know the rest.
For in Vespera, men like Elias learned early that certain truths were safer left unspoken.
So he lived carefully.
Alone.
Or at least he pretended to.
Only a few people knew that the violinist who often lingered in his workshop after concerts was more than a friend.
Julien knew.
And Elias knew.
That was enough.
Or so they told themselves.
One rainy afternoon the cathedral dean arrived carrying a sealed letter.
"The great mechanism has failed," the dean said gravely.
"The astronomic clock?"
"The very one."
Elias felt his breath catch.
The cathedral clock was legendary.
Built nearly three centuries earlier, it filled an entire chamber beneath the bell tower. Brass gears taller than a man rotated with celestial precision. Mechanical saints marched across hidden platforms. Stars, moons, and planets danced through elaborate cycles.
It was considered one of the wonders of the city.
And it had stopped.
The dean placed a key upon the workbench.
"We need you."
Three days later Elias climbed the narrow spiral stairs into the cathedral's hidden heart.
Dust filled the air.
Sunlight filtered through stained glass overhead.
And there, silent and motionless, stood the mechanism.
For hours he studied its gears.
For days he disassembled and repaired.
Then he noticed something peculiar.
A symbol.
Tiny.
Nearly invisible.
Carved into the underside of a brass wheel.
Two intertwined lilies.
Not unusual in itself.
Except the design appeared again.
And again.
And again.
Always hidden.
Always deliberate.
Curiosity became obsession.
He searched the archives.
Examined old blueprints.
Read forgotten journals.
And slowly a story emerged.
The cathedral's architect had been a man named Luca Bellini.
A brilliant designer.
An eccentric artist.
A mystery.
Among Bellini's surviving papers Elias discovered coded sketches. Marginal notes. Strange annotations disguised as measurements.
And finally a letter.
Not addressed.
Never sent.
Its paper had yellowed with age.
Its ink had faded.
But the meaning remained.
My beloved Matteo,
They may command stone and glass, but they cannot command what lives within the soul.
If they forbid us sunlight, I shall hide it in color.
If they forbid us music, I shall hide it in geometry.
If they forbid our names, I shall place them in the clockwork of eternity.
Elias stared at the words until his vision blurred.
The architect had been like him.
Centuries earlier.
The lilies represented two men.
The measurements concealed initials.
The clock itself was a monument to a love no history book had ever recorded.
Yet there was more.
Far more.
As he continued restoring the mechanism, he discovered Bellini had orchestrated something extraordinary.
The gears controlled more than time.
They controlled light.
Each wheel turned hidden mirrors.
Each mirror altered the angle at which the evening sun passed through the cathedral's western windows.
The entire mechanism was a concerto of glass and motion.
A performance.
One that had not played properly for decades.
Elias knew what restoring it would reveal.
And he knew the risk.
The authorities admired the cathedral.
They would not admire Bellini's secret.
For several nights he wrestled with the decision.
One evening Julien found him alone in the tower.
"You've already decided," Julien said gently.
"No."
"You have."
Elias smiled sadly.
"How can you tell?"
"Because you're afraid."
The words lingered.
Then Julien took his hand.
Only for a moment.
Only because no one could see.
"Some things deserve sunlight," he whispered.
The final repair took place on the last evening of June.
Clouds drifted across the western sky.
The square below filled with citizens eager to witness the clock's return.
The bells began to ring.
Gears turned.
Levers moved.
Ancient brass awakened.
Then the sun emerged.
Golden light entered the cathedral.
Passed through hidden mirrors.
Through stained glass.
Through centuries.
Suddenly a river of color exploded across the square.
Ruby.
Amber.
Sapphire.
Emerald.
Violet.
A living rainbow spilled over cobblestones, fountains, shopfronts, and astonished faces.
The crowd gasped.
Artists dropped their sketchbooks.
Children laughed and ran through the colors.
Musicians stood speechless.
And scattered throughout the square were people who had spent their entire lives hiding parts of themselves.
They looked up.
Then at one another.
Then back at the light.
No proclamation was spoken.
No banners were raised.
No speeches were given.
Yet something passed among them all.
A recognition.
A remembrance.
A quiet certainty that they were not alone.
Above them, unseen in the tower, Elias and Julien stood together.
The colors touched the cathedral walls.
Touched the city.
Touched history.
And for one perfect moment, the hidden became visible.
Not exposed.
Not condemned.
Simply illuminated.
Far below, the rainbow drifted across the square like a blessing from another century.
And somewhere beyond time, perhaps Luca Bellini and Matteo smiled.
* * * * * * * * * *
Rain drifts softly through the northwoods this morning.
Not a storm. Not even a steady rain. Just gentle showers moving through the trees beneath a sky painted in shades of silver and gray.
The wee cottage is quiet.
A lamp glows upon my desk, creating a warm pool of light against the darkness beyond the window. Beside it sits a coffee mug that desperately needs a refill.
I smile as I look at it.
Over the years I have collected coffee mugs bearing the images of the furry family members who have shared my life. This morning's mug belongs to Leona.
Her little face gazes up at me from the porcelain.
And memory does what memory does best.
It bridges time.
For a moment she is here again—not merely as a photograph but as a feeling. A warmth. A presence. A chapter of love that remains part of who I am.
John Barry's Give Me a Smile drifts through the cottage, filling the rooms with gentle music. Outside, the rain taps softly upon leaves and rooftops. Inside, coffee grows cold while thoughts wander.
Perhaps that is what mornings are for.
Not simply awakening the body, but awakening the heart.
This morning I find myself thinking about a quote by Harvey Fierstein:
"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself."
Those words speak powerfully to the experience of many gay people. They speak to the courage it takes to live honestly in a world that sometimes prefers masks to authenticity.
Yet I think they speak to something even larger.
They speak to all of us.
Each of us carries dreams, hopes, gifts, and truths that are uniquely our own. Yet throughout life there are voices—sometimes from society, sometimes from family, sometimes even from our own fears—that attempt to tell us who we should be.
Too often we listen.
Too often we shrink.
Too often we become smaller than the magnificent people we were meant to become.
But life is not an audition for someone else's approval.
It is an invitation.
An invitation to become fully ourselves.
The world does not need another imitation.
It needs the gift that only you can bring.
The older I grow, the more I believe that authenticity is one of the highest forms of courage. To be kind when bitterness would be easier. To be hopeful when cynicism is fashionable. To love when fear urges caution. To stand quietly in the truth of who you are.
That is courage.
That is strength.
And perhaps that is freedom.
Outside, the rain continues its gentle conversation with the earth.
Inside, my coffee mug is empty.
The day waits patiently.
Another morning.
Another chance.
Another opportunity to define ourselves not by fear, not by expectation, not by the opinions of others, but by the quiet truth that lives within.
The lamp still glows.
The music still plays.
The memory of Leona still warms my heart.
And so I rise to refill my coffee cup and greet this day exactly as I am.
Which, after all, is more than enough.
Morning reminds us that every day begins the same way—with light seeking a place to shine. Our task is simply to let it.
~Wylddane
~Aldous Huxley
The city of Vespera was a place of clocks.
Clock towers marked the hours. Clockmakers were respected artisans. Time governed the factories, the markets, the churches, and the lives of its citizens.
It was also a city of secrets.
In the spring of 1926, Elias Moreau kept many of them.
At thirty-two, he was regarded as one of the finest clockmakers in the region. His small workshop occupied a narrow lane behind the cathedral square. By day he repaired pocket watches and grandfather clocks. By night he sat beside oil lamps, restoring ancient mechanisms whose creators had long since vanished into history.
He was handsome in a quiet way—dark-haired, thoughtful, with steady hands and eyes that always seemed to be searching for something beyond what others could see.
The city knew him as a craftsman.
The city did not know the rest.
For in Vespera, men like Elias learned early that certain truths were safer left unspoken.
So he lived carefully.
Alone.
Or at least he pretended to.
Only a few people knew that the violinist who often lingered in his workshop after concerts was more than a friend.
Julien knew.
And Elias knew.
That was enough.
Or so they told themselves.
One rainy afternoon the cathedral dean arrived carrying a sealed letter.
"The great mechanism has failed," the dean said gravely.
"The astronomic clock?"
"The very one."
Elias felt his breath catch.
The cathedral clock was legendary.
Built nearly three centuries earlier, it filled an entire chamber beneath the bell tower. Brass gears taller than a man rotated with celestial precision. Mechanical saints marched across hidden platforms. Stars, moons, and planets danced through elaborate cycles.
It was considered one of the wonders of the city.
And it had stopped.
The dean placed a key upon the workbench.
"We need you."
Three days later Elias climbed the narrow spiral stairs into the cathedral's hidden heart.
Dust filled the air.
Sunlight filtered through stained glass overhead.
And there, silent and motionless, stood the mechanism.
For hours he studied its gears.
For days he disassembled and repaired.
Then he noticed something peculiar.
A symbol.
Tiny.
Nearly invisible.
Carved into the underside of a brass wheel.
Two intertwined lilies.
Not unusual in itself.
Except the design appeared again.
And again.
And again.
Always hidden.
Always deliberate.
Curiosity became obsession.
He searched the archives.
Examined old blueprints.
Read forgotten journals.
And slowly a story emerged.
The cathedral's architect had been a man named Luca Bellini.
A brilliant designer.
An eccentric artist.
A mystery.
Among Bellini's surviving papers Elias discovered coded sketches. Marginal notes. Strange annotations disguised as measurements.
And finally a letter.
Not addressed.
Never sent.
Its paper had yellowed with age.
Its ink had faded.
But the meaning remained.
My beloved Matteo,
They may command stone and glass, but they cannot command what lives within the soul.
If they forbid us sunlight, I shall hide it in color.
If they forbid us music, I shall hide it in geometry.
If they forbid our names, I shall place them in the clockwork of eternity.
Elias stared at the words until his vision blurred.
The architect had been like him.
Centuries earlier.
The lilies represented two men.
The measurements concealed initials.
The clock itself was a monument to a love no history book had ever recorded.
Yet there was more.
Far more.
As he continued restoring the mechanism, he discovered Bellini had orchestrated something extraordinary.
The gears controlled more than time.
They controlled light.
Each wheel turned hidden mirrors.
Each mirror altered the angle at which the evening sun passed through the cathedral's western windows.
The entire mechanism was a concerto of glass and motion.
A performance.
One that had not played properly for decades.
Elias knew what restoring it would reveal.
And he knew the risk.
The authorities admired the cathedral.
They would not admire Bellini's secret.
For several nights he wrestled with the decision.
One evening Julien found him alone in the tower.
"You've already decided," Julien said gently.
"No."
"You have."
Elias smiled sadly.
"How can you tell?"
"Because you're afraid."
The words lingered.
Then Julien took his hand.
Only for a moment.
Only because no one could see.
"Some things deserve sunlight," he whispered.
The final repair took place on the last evening of June.
Clouds drifted across the western sky.
The square below filled with citizens eager to witness the clock's return.
The bells began to ring.
Gears turned.
Levers moved.
Ancient brass awakened.
Then the sun emerged.
Golden light entered the cathedral.
Passed through hidden mirrors.
Through stained glass.
Through centuries.
Suddenly a river of color exploded across the square.
Ruby.
Amber.
Sapphire.
Emerald.
Violet.
A living rainbow spilled over cobblestones, fountains, shopfronts, and astonished faces.
The crowd gasped.
Artists dropped their sketchbooks.
Children laughed and ran through the colors.
Musicians stood speechless.
And scattered throughout the square were people who had spent their entire lives hiding parts of themselves.
They looked up.
Then at one another.
Then back at the light.
No proclamation was spoken.
No banners were raised.
No speeches were given.
Yet something passed among them all.
A recognition.
A remembrance.
A quiet certainty that they were not alone.
Above them, unseen in the tower, Elias and Julien stood together.
The colors touched the cathedral walls.
Touched the city.
Touched history.
And for one perfect moment, the hidden became visible.
Not exposed.
Not condemned.
Simply illuminated.
Far below, the rainbow drifted across the square like a blessing from another century.
And somewhere beyond time, perhaps Luca Bellini and Matteo smiled.
* * * * * * * * * *
Rain drifts softly through the northwoods this morning.
Not a storm. Not even a steady rain. Just gentle showers moving through the trees beneath a sky painted in shades of silver and gray.
The wee cottage is quiet.
A lamp glows upon my desk, creating a warm pool of light against the darkness beyond the window. Beside it sits a coffee mug that desperately needs a refill.
I smile as I look at it.
Over the years I have collected coffee mugs bearing the images of the furry family members who have shared my life. This morning's mug belongs to Leona.
Her little face gazes up at me from the porcelain.
And memory does what memory does best.
It bridges time.
For a moment she is here again—not merely as a photograph but as a feeling. A warmth. A presence. A chapter of love that remains part of who I am.
John Barry's Give Me a Smile drifts through the cottage, filling the rooms with gentle music. Outside, the rain taps softly upon leaves and rooftops. Inside, coffee grows cold while thoughts wander.
Perhaps that is what mornings are for.
Not simply awakening the body, but awakening the heart.
This morning I find myself thinking about a quote by Harvey Fierstein:
"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself."
Those words speak powerfully to the experience of many gay people. They speak to the courage it takes to live honestly in a world that sometimes prefers masks to authenticity.
Yet I think they speak to something even larger.
They speak to all of us.
Each of us carries dreams, hopes, gifts, and truths that are uniquely our own. Yet throughout life there are voices—sometimes from society, sometimes from family, sometimes even from our own fears—that attempt to tell us who we should be.
Too often we listen.
Too often we shrink.
Too often we become smaller than the magnificent people we were meant to become.
But life is not an audition for someone else's approval.
It is an invitation.
An invitation to become fully ourselves.
The world does not need another imitation.
It needs the gift that only you can bring.
The older I grow, the more I believe that authenticity is one of the highest forms of courage. To be kind when bitterness would be easier. To be hopeful when cynicism is fashionable. To love when fear urges caution. To stand quietly in the truth of who you are.
That is courage.
That is strength.
And perhaps that is freedom.
Outside, the rain continues its gentle conversation with the earth.
Inside, my coffee mug is empty.
The day waits patiently.
Another morning.
Another chance.
Another opportunity to define ourselves not by fear, not by expectation, not by the opinions of others, but by the quiet truth that lives within.
The lamp still glows.
The music still plays.
The memory of Leona still warms my heart.
And so I rise to refill my coffee cup and greet this day exactly as I am.
Which, after all, is more than enough.
Morning reminds us that every day begins the same way—with light seeking a place to shine. Our task is simply to let it.
~Wylddane
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