At first there were complaints about the noise. Not that anyone knows what the noise is, precisely, even though it is rather loud. Whatever it is inside the building, echoing and humming and clicking, remains a mystery.
The bits that spill out onto the surrounding lot are made of stone and glass and wood, pieces without any easily discernible function, sitting quietly while the echoing hum rumbles continuously on.
After a bunch of kids threw stones at the glass the noise stopped for about a day.
The next morning the odd-shaped glass bits that had been shattered were intact again and the eagles were there, keeping watch.
The stone throwing stopped. Everything stopped, really. The graffiti, the robberies, any sort of crime within several blocks just stopped that day and so far it hasn’t started up again.
No one complains about the noise anymore.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.