The rose bloomed at midnight, as roses do in laboratories where science has ventured into territories that God never intended anyone to visit.
Sir Henry Wogrin stood over it, his reflection fractured in the glass walls of the containment chamber, his face pale and drawn in the greenish light that filled the underground laboratory beneath his Hampstead home. The rose was not a normal rose. It glowed—a soft blue luminescence that pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat, like breath, like something that was almost alive but not quite, hovering...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 6 Views 0 Anteprima