The Wistful Petal
The count is wrong. I have weighed the hours since the last entry and they do not sum to the days on the calendar. The ink is wet, heavy, and it smells of iron, which is not the smell of ink. It is the smell of the Hum, that low, grinding vibration that sits in the base of my skull like a second spine. I am Dr. Elias Thorne, and I have three weeks to finish the monograph, or I am nothing. The...
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