Chapter 4 · free to read
Eleven months, age nineteen. A private ward on the north side, paid for by somebody who was not his family.
Four pieces, four scenes, four weeks. And a fifth page already sitting on a stand in an empty club.
He did not say the other half. That was not the same as not thinking it.
The ward invoice named the archivist who had bought the whole folio six years later. Sebastian Quill answered his telephone on the second ring.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.