The candle's flame trembled as though it knew what was coming. Shadows wavered along the cramped study walls, dancing over the shelves where books leaned like tired sentinels. Outside, the storm pressed its fists against the windowpanes, thunder growling low and long.
The man at the desk did not notice the rain. His quill scratched furiously across yellowed paper, each word drawn as though from his very marrow.
"The clock has turned against me. I have run from century to century, but it follows still. The pattern is fracturing… and I am nearly out of hours."
His breath fogged in the air — the room was growing colder, though no wind had entered. The brass clock in the corner no longer ticked. Its hands hung at midnight.
Somewhere behind him, the light changed. The shadows no longer belonged to the candle. A low hum filled the air, vibrating in his teeth. He dipped the quill one last time, scrawling across the page in a hurried, almost desperate hand:
"This is my last chance. If you find this… run."
He snapped the journal shut and slid it into a leather satchel. His fingers trembled as he buckled the clasp. The humming grew louder — a sound like the heartbeat of the world.
Then, with a flash that had no color at all, the man vanished. Only the candle remained, its flame flickering wildly… before winking out.