Gheile Vos

The portrait for the evening: A dutifully kept ledger. Full to bursting with dull, but meticulously kept accounts. And the ledger’s newest keeper, hunched over a desk, dull flickering light bathing the sallow flesh and squinting eyes.

The script filling the thick, worn tome was elegant but spindly. Each character far too long and narrow. An alphabet made entirely of small insectoids, ready to crawl off the surface of the yellowing parchment. Fingers that laid atop the page not actively being filled were as elongated as the lettering. Unsettlingly bony, nearing skeletal, the pallor of their flesh was even more stark when compared to the antique nature of the pages they rested upon. A single new line reflected the flickering candlelight in the still wet ink, as the woman who penned it leaned back against the hard wooden back of her seat.

A brief, but intimate glimpse into a quiet life.

Done