Chapter 13 · free to read
Established the year he died. Named for him. Funded, I would find, by the sale of the presses he spent his life paying off.
His lamp. His shirt, the one with the burn on the cuff. His rule. Somebody had gone into the ruin before the fire brigade left and taken out everything that would still be there in ten years.
I had spent ten years turning myself into someone who could not be hurt by a room. It took that room about four seconds.
Not only his things. Mine. Every mark I ever earned, every fee that was paid for me, filed under the same reference as his shirt — as though I were another object recovered from the same fire.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.