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The Golden SongThe banquet hall of the Oakhaven Municipal Building smelled of roasted pheasant and stale wax, a cloying mixture that clung to the back of your throat as you watched the town council deliberate over the fate of the bell tower. You were Elias Thorne, thirty-two, a senior archivist who had spent the last five years fighting for the restoration of this crumbling landmark, and the heavy oak table...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe oil can trembled in my hand, the nozzle dripping a single, viscous bead onto the brass escapement, and I watched it sink into the metal as if the clock were alive and thirsty. I am Elias Thorne, a clockmaker of forty-two years, and for the last six months I have been tasked with repairing the Grand Chime before the King’s coronation, a duty that cost me my sanity and, eventually, my life....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleSt. Jude’s Asylum smells of wet wool and boiled cabbage, a scent that has seeped into the very bricks of the building until I can taste it on my tongue when I wake. It is March of 1924, and I am thirty-two years old, a junior clerk who has spent the last six years watching my sister Elara rot in Ward 4. The rule here is simple, written in the green ink of the ivy that climbs the exterior walls:...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe hour is measured in the dust that settles on the floorboards, a fine gray powder that coats the tips of your fingers and the hem of your coat. You count the cracks in the plaster of the hallway, twelve in total, each one a small fracture in the skin of the house. You are Elias, forty-two, a surveyor whose ledgers are as red as a wound, and you have until Friday to sell this place or lose...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe wool was damp, cold against your palms, and the smell of lanolin was sharp enough to sting the back of your throat. You held the skein up to the light filtering through the high, arched windows of the Guild Hall, checking for knots, for weak spots in the fiber. It was a good piece of wool, heavy and dense, bought at a price that had bled the last of your savings dry. You were thirty-two...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe quill in Elias Thorne’s hand trembled, not from the cold that seeped through the stone floor of the scriptorium, but from the sheer weight of the ink. It was a black, viscous substance, ground from oak gall and iron, and it smelled of iron and old blood. Before him lay the condemned manuscript, a single page torn from a book of heretical translations, and upon it, the glyph. It was a mark...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden Cellar1892, October 14th. The cellar smells of damp limestone and old copper. I have been scrubbing the floor for three hours, my knuckles white and raw, but the stain from the spilled wine remains, a dark bruise on the stone that no amount of effort will erase. My name is Elias Vane, and I am twelve years old, though my hands look like those of a man who has worked in the mines. The debt is three...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridI dreamt again of the ash. It was not the grey dust of a fireplace, but a fine, white powder that settled on the tongue like snow, tasting of burnt sugar and old iron. I woke in the small hours, the silence of Ashwood Asylum pressing against my ears, a heavy, velvet weight that muffled the distant clatter of the boiler room. I am Elias Thorne, Captain of the Guard, though the title has lost its...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe house exhaled before the first light touched the windows. You felt it in your teeth, a low, vibrating hum that traveled up through the floorboards of the attic room where you slept. It was the sound of something breathing, something large and slow and terribly old. You sat up, your heart hammering against your ribs, and looked at the corner of the room. The coat was there. It had not been...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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