The small studio was its own world, one planet, spinning in an empty, frigid space. The only sounds were the hiss of the gas lamp, the scratch of the nib, and the harsh, unconscious rhythm of Jonah Magnus's own breathing. Canvases leaned against the walls, raw and grotesque, the physical manifestation of his pain. But this evening, the storm in him had altered from savage to barren. The fury had dwindled to embers, and only a pale, icy ash of despair remained.He sat alone at a simple wooden table, a single sheet of inexpensive, unlined paper before him. A pen, an ink bottle. These were his tools now, not to record the words of someone else, but to excavate his own.He began to write. Not with the careful composure of the Institute's director, or the sharp intellectual precision of the scholar. This was a more laborious, more primal script, the words pulled into being out of a wound.Robert,I don't know why I'm writing this. You will never read it. To send it would be a weakness, and
Last Updated : 2025-10-02 Read more