"Who are you?" the woman asked, her gently-sloped eyebrows creasing her forehead. In the dark, she never really lost the pale sheen rolling off her skin. She drew her arms around herself, glowering at Page's entire being. "What are you doing here?"

Page realized the broomstick must have spooked her, so he lowered it. A sigh tore off his lips, forcing him to relax. Whoever this woman was, she wasn't here to hurt him. Otherwise, he'd already be a rabbit in a hat in the middle of a troupe by now. Was he convinced she was magic? Well, who could pull off a look straight out of a medieval fantasy book, glow like a freaking lava lamp, and have a killer singing voice in a language no one understood? He could be dreaming, but right now, he stared at a magical woman who was lost inside Gary's studio.

He scratched the back of his head. "I'm one of the workers here. I was closing up for the night when I heard your song," he explained, omitting the important parts such as doing this for double pay or the potential genre-bending songs for the label. "Let's just say I was entranced by it."

The woman didn't look like she believed it, but she looked away, not pressing further. "I suppose you have come to tell me to find another place to stay?" she ventured.

Page opened his mouth to confirm it. Yes, Gary asked him to chase out whoever was disrupting the recording sessions...but he didn't say uproot the person completely. As far as Page was aware, the broom closet wasn't in use, nor would it ever. Gary was happy with the redesign of the rooms beyond. He didn't need a bigger room the size of a high school gym. That was, of course, until he did. Perhaps, it was Page's job to make sure he would never.

So, he clapped his hands together and gave the woman the nicest smile he could. The fact that she could speak a language he was conversational in was a huge, huge bonus. "You can stay here for as long as you like." He shook his head at the woman's statement earlier. "But I came to tell you about the songs...disturbing other people who use this building during the day."

The woman frowned. "Day?" She tilted her head to one side. "What is 'day'?"

Page blinked. "Oh. Um, it's the time of the...day where the sun is out, and it's bright and happy, and people are up and about." He scratched his chin. Why was his own language so complicated? "It can also refer to the entire cycle of sun and moon rising in the sky. But...I totally meant the hours the sun is in the sky until the time it comes down."

Much to his consternation, the woman's frown deepened. "What is a 'sun'?"

He glanced at his arm and noticed his watch peeking past the sleeves. An idea sparked in his head. The latches clicked off when he slid it off his wrist. Slowly, he approached the woman. She didn't scoot away in horror. Just...watching him with wary eyes. No claws unsheathed, no fangs bared, so it should be good.

"Here," he said, passing her the watch. He tapped a finger on the crystal face. "See those hands? The sun will come out the moment the long hand and the short hand point here and here. It sets around the same time, so you might want to wait until it comes back to its starting position. After that, you are free to sing to your heart's content, at least until the hands come back to the same position again. Does that make sense?"

The woman nodded briefly. Her gaze hasn't averted from the watch ticking away on her long, slender fingers. Standing so close to her, he noticed her long lashes, her large, doe eyes and aquamarine irises with silver flecks, her button nose, and her full lips. She was...well, like her songs. She was beautiful.

"Do you have a spool?" she asked out of the blue.

Page blinked again. This woman seemed to have a talent at surprising him at every turn. "I...we have some wool threads back at the farm," he said. "I'll ask my boss for some. Does that work?"

A smile replaced the frown on her face. If threads were the only things that made her happy, she was better than the majority of the population. "I still have some silk threads, but they will run out soon," she explained. "When is the soonest you can bring them?"

He pursed his lips. "Tomorrow," he answered.

"What's your name?" he blurted after a wall of silence rendered between them.

"I am called Dara," the woman replied, touching her chest. That was then Page noticed she only had four fingers in each hand. That was... "How about you?"

He blinked for the third time, subtly shaking his head to get over her missing appendages. "Uh...Page," he said.

"Uh...Page," Dara repeated.

"No, just Page."

Dara bobbed her head. "I will wait for you until 'tomorrow', Just Page."

Oh, great. It looked as if he had his work cut out for him. Hooray for a third part-time job.

When tomorrow rolled around, he strolled into the studio with a boxful of wool threads. Most of these would be sent to the nearby home for the elderly where the members would be knitting the days away. The blankets and other products would be sent to foster homes or sold online for the home's monthly budget. Upon going to work earlier, he asked the boss if he could grab some from the current delivery batch. The old man with a signature cigar on his mouth couldn't have grouched his approval as quickly as he did.

"Take as many as you want, boy," the boss said with hands bracing his thick, cowskin vintage belt. "I ain't up for what schtick you use 'em for."

Which was how Page ended up with the box coming to him for work in the studio. The day bled by slower, his thoughts latching on the woman he was helping hide in the abandoned broom closet. If one of the artists got lost there on their way to the comfort room, would Page be brought in for questioning? What would happen to Dara? Would she be reported to the police, the laboratories, or somewhere else?

He hid the box underneath the table designated for him in the employee room. It was mostly to store his jacket and his trusty backpack while he went off to work. There wasn't any singing the entire day, but Gary was suspicious. Page didn't help by lying and saying he didn't find the cause for it.

"Maybe the ghost got bored of us?" Page suggested, and if the law allowed Gary to slam an employee against a wall, he would have Page.

By the time the day was over, he went back to retrieve the box of wool threads and strode back to the broom closet. He checked to see if there weren't any artists pulling late night sessions way past operating hours. When all the lights in the recording rooms turned off, he sped to Dara.

The box made a gentle thud on the floor as soon as his shoes squeaked all the way to her. She hasn't moved from her perch. "Here you are," Page said, dusting his hands and plopping a respectful distance from her. He rested his weight on his wrists as he leaned back. "If I may ask, what are you going to do with them?"

As an answer, she held up her hands. Yep, a finger was missing on each hand. A beginning of a weaving hung from her fingers, reminding him of the knitting projects he saw in the home for the elderly when it was his turn to do the deliveries. Was she...weaving all this time?

"What am I looking at?" Page said. A little too dumb for a woman he wanted to impress, but it was what it was.

"This is the story of my people," she explained. "I sing to weave the words into the silk threads, so that when you touch it..."

Heat rose to Page's cheeks when she reached out and yanked his hand towards her weaving. The moment his fingers touched the tip, a flash of light transported him into a different world. People who looked like Dara milled about a fantasy wonderland, squeezing fruits or manning the fields with strange creatures. Trees burst with weird fruits, flowers glowed with a soft glow, and the familiar song Page heard yesterday accompanied every image.

It was over as fast as it started. Page was pulled out of whatever psychedelic trance he was in, the light siphoning off into the darkness. His gaze landed on Dara whose hand still rested atop his. He withdrew what was his, his fingers rubbing the spots where their skin touched. What the hell was that?

"How did you end up here, then?" Page asked. "Why the need to weave and sing your people's stories?"

Dara's smile became sad. "Our world is dying," she said. "I was the last one to make it past the portal, and it's my job to seek out a way to revive the dying magic in it, to save my people. I just...need to find a source powerful enough to chase the Destruction away."

She hefted the weaving and continued twirling the strands in an almost hypnotic sequence. "In case I fail, I weave our stories so we won't be forgotten," she continued. "And that I also won't forget."

Page fished his phone from his pocket and held his hand towards Dara. "We can record it, though," he said, pointing to the dark screen. "You don't need to hurt your hands storing them in threads."

"I'm a silk maiden," she replied with a chuckle. "It's my job to weave."

"Can I at least stay here while you sing?" Page asked. "You can teach me the language, and I can listen to your songs at home. They're...relaxing."

Dara answered by closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Then, a flood of calm slapped into Page's gut as she started singing.