1.2

M - I write from a small stool inside your workshop, surrounded by esoteric vessels and an apparatus of strange construction. The furnace is filled with cold ash; the various scales and jars are coated with dust. You clearly constructed this place as your sanctuary. And yet, something caused you to abandon it.

The farm folk say you have been missing for months. You told them nothing before you disappeared; they seemed unsurprised by this. According to them, you were always aloof, tight-lipped. A little frightening.

As I questioned them, I began to wonder if I had found the correct alchemist, after all.

But I see you in the arrangements of your workshop. The candles burnt low; the smell of sandalwood; a drawing of your marvelous apparatus, bird cage and all, clearly labeled in your familiar hand. You were here, once.

At least, some version of you was.

(They say you are unmarried. That, at least, has not changed.)

I cannot torment myself this way. It grows dark. I cannot torment myself this way. It grows dark. There must be a hiding spot somewhere - a clue as to where you’ve gone.