The air in my study hangs heavy. Memories peaking through crevices within the walls, corners, files, books. Dust motes drift in amber fading winter daylight, swirling, unbothered, ethereal. The glow pools over the worn grain of my desk — scarred, uneven, much like me. Outside, the winter winds claw at the glass. They whisper something primal. Ugly. Incomprehensible. I lean back, the chair creaks under me, my eyes falling to the half-empty tumbler of scotch. Johnny Walker please, Blue Label of course. A gift from a friend… no, that’s not fair. She was more than that. Much more. Amber light. Amber liquid. Trapped fire, both. Tonight, no airships. No light in the trees. No tricksters dancing, just out of reach. Tonight, it is death. Stark. Naked. Uninvited.