My heart fluttered like the wings of a nightingale as I entered the taxi that the chauffeur holding a placard with my name boldly written on it. I had just arrived McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas. It was my first trip out of Nigeria, my first trip by air, my first… so many “firsts”. I had won the Terry Goodkind “Know Your Author” challenge on Facebook. There had been thousands of contestants from all over the globe and it had, indeed, been a very tough battle but my endless hours of reading his novels and drooling over his Wikipedia page paid off. My prize was an all-expense-paid trip to spend the weekend with  Terry Goodkind – one of the greatest authors to ever walk the face of this terrestrial ball. The taxi pulled up in front of a blue-painted bungalow.  The scent of the myriad of flowers bordering the well-mown lawn made my nostrils dance with excitement. I got my luggage out of the car and took a deep breath of the fresh air. A part of me didn’t want to return home, I felt like I belonged to this serene environment. I walked up to the door where an attendant was waiting to take my bags. The interior of the house seemed so natural.  Mr. Terry Goodkind, who was also a carpenter and professional violin maker, probably made all the furniture himself. So many talents embedded in one human. “Please have your seat, Mr. Goodkind will be with you shortly Sir,” the attendant said with a bow, waking me up from my reverie. I sat and continued my tour of what seemed like the most decorated sitting room in the whole universe. I could see various quotes from his novels on the walls and one, in particular, caught my attention “YOUR LIFE IS YOURS, RISE AND LIVE IT”. It was a line from my favourite book. ‘A very good day to you”, a voice said. There he was, staring at me with a bright smile on his face. “You’re welcome to my humble abode.” “Mr. Goood… Goodkind, it’s an honour to meet you” I said stammering, my knees feeling really weak. “It’s an honour to meet you too”, he said, his calm smile still very evident. We started talking about sports, novels, and life in general, he listened with rapt attention and answered all my questions with extreme calmness. After an hour or so, we were served tea and he took the reins of the conversation and started telling me about his life. After what seemed like an eternity, I looked at my time and it was almost evening. “Wow,” I said, “time flies when you’re having fun.” “Yes, it does,” he said chuckling out loud. “So Mr. Goodkind, can you show me where you write, where the magic all happens?” I asked. “Well, I write everywhere, but if you’re asking for a magic room, I don’t have that, but I can show you my study”, he said smiling. He stood and walked through a door on the right leading to a narrow passage. He opened the door to his study and I could see the four walls of the room were covered with shelves that held books of all sizes, some bearing several layers of dirt and others beaming with freshness. I could see books from familiar authors on the shelves, the likes of J.K Rowling, J.R Tolkien, Chimamamda Adichie, Wole Soyinka, etc. In the centre of the room was a table that held a laptop, open books, and several containers of pens. I could see parchments and letters here and there too. “This is where most of it happens.” He said. “Wow,” I said looking around, feeding my eyes to stupor, “This is, indeed, huge.” “So now let’s get to the main reason you’re here,” he said. “The main reason I am here?” I asked him in surprise. “Yes, I want to show you something” he replied as he went to the wall on the left and pulled out an age-beaten book. At his touch, the wall came alive and creaked as the shelf moved forward and aside. “Grab a torch from the table and come with me, don’t be scared.” I was skeptical about his instructions, things had taken a weird turn, I couldn’t figure out what was going on. I picked up the torch from the table and walked behind him down the stairs that had appeared in the wall. We emerged into a wide, round room. The room looked like a medieval prison with dust-covered walls, though, I could still make out markings and symbols all over it. It looked as if the room had not been opened in ages. Another weird thing about the room apart from the fact that it had no edges was the enormous metallic structure at its middle. Terry moved over to it and said, “This is the Symph, no one alive except the 2 of us has ever seen it, and only a few people have beheld it since the beginning of time” Walking closer, I could make out the features of this odd-looking object. A faint humming sound was coming from it and there were several inscriptions and symbols on its surface. One, in particular, stood out – a rune that looked like a circle with a dot in the middle from which lines radiated outside the circle. I also noticed concrete slabs that bore similar markings at the base of the structure. “What’s a Symph?” I asked. “It’s named from the Greek word Sumphõnus meaning harmony. This machine here is older than time itself and from it radiates all inspirations for poetry, writing, and literature. It has been described with several names for eons – the merger of souls, the aligner, the source. And now it has chosen you as its next bearer” “Chosen me?” I asked with a low giggle. “Yes, it chooses a bearer from every generation to make sure the authenticity