Whispers of Existence

Previously

…He stumbled, catching himself on the worn mahogany of his desk, the scent of aged paper and dust filling his nostrils. It was a smell that had once soothed him, a familiar comfort in his self-imposed exile. Now, it was tinged with the metallic tang of fear. The windowpanes, usually reflecting the placid, indifferent sky, seemed to warp and shimmer, as if the very glass held a memory of the violent intrusion. He’d felt it, a pressure building, a cold dread seeping into the marrow of his bones. Then,