The coffee had gone cold again.
He didn't notice until he'd already taken a sip, the tepid liquid sitting wrong in his stomach alongside everything else that sat wrong these days. He set the cup down carefully—both hands required now, the trembling had gotten worse—and returned to his parchment.
The observatory was quieter than usual. It had been quiet for weeks. He'd stopped receiving visitors long ago, stopped responding to the rare correspondence that found its way to his door. The work consumed everything. What little remained of him belonged to documentation.
Write it down. Leave a record. Someone needs to know.
His quill scratched across parchment in handwriting that had deteriorated noticeably over recent weeks. The letters were larger now, compensating for his failing eyesight. The lines wandered slightly, compensating for hands that no longer held steady.
He had weeks. Not months.
