The Archivist keeps a living record. These pages are bound by hand —
each entry placed deliberately, each word weighed like a stone.
melancholy
The condensation beads on the glass panes and drips onto the stone floor, each drop loud enough to count.
Yarrow is hunched over the workbench. Their suit — moss-green, usually so carefully mismatched — is wrinkled, stained with soil and something darker at the cuffs.
I don't know how to reach them anymore.
unease
The coffee was still warm.
I don't know how. The laboratory had been empty for hours. The embers had gone cold. The potions had stopped bubbling.
But the coffee was warm.
I sat in their chair and I finished it. It was terrible — they always brewed it too strong, bitter enough to strip paint. I drank the whole thing.
Now I make a fresh pot every morning. I pour two cups. I drink mine. I leave theirs on the desk.
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