Itās the afternoon again, raining again in the Town on Ghorkon. The Stone Yardās plates of slate and brick in the ground are going to be iced over despite the coating of salt the Patrolmen dispersed with a layer of sand. Daniil squeezes half a lemon into a cup of tea and stirs the cup with an old spoon. His room had become a game of needles in haystacks, the collections of his old life condensed into something that would barely fill out an entire house.Ā
Perhaps thatās why he had neglected to move any of it out, and instead let his things become more and more scattered. A crate of books, a collection of diagrams, some odds, ends, and hardly any valuables. Anatoly had grabbed the miniature globe from his academic possessions,Ā and it didnāt spin anymore.Ā
He also grabbed the wonderful steel teapot he was fond of.Ā
Daniil poured a second cup of tea, and set it beside his. Andrey was asleep in his bed, and had slept through the smell ofĀ draniki, quail egg, and beef.Ā
There were butterflies fluttering through his house and gravitating in the stove room. Heād set up a sugar water tray and perch for them out of an old bird cage, the remains of one of Andreyās dead lizards being quickly picked at as the day went on. It hadnāt been one of the strange creatures creeping from his pockets.
Daniil leans in the chair the entire way back, and it rests on his bedside.
āYou should wake up before you rot into the bed.ā
@bonefoundation

















