There is a little town you have never seen alive. Slanted on the side of a hilltop, layer upon layer of abandoned storefronts mask the home of a man who stands hunched and bald on the peak, for his head scrapes against the low, greasy ceiling. On this night, we find the man criss-crossed on the floor, elements and configurations and books scattered like autumn leaves around his knees. His sagacious eyes gleam with a metallic sheen not unlike the vitriol he swirls in the tube, two elements becoming one, many molecules dancing with more grace and ease than the man had otherwise witnessed.
“The Elixir of Life!” the man cries. “Behold me, Thoth, your equal! Look, Flamel— my victory!”
The man places the vial to his lips.
The dimness of his room, abandoned despite its occupant, overtakes the man’s spirit.
Life, for what?
Glass becomes dust.