The street outside was dark and cold; unfashionable gas lamps long extinguished in the wake of twilight before the coming dawn, a pale and murky blue. Through the window, barren tree branches etched into that robin’s egg hue like the soldering of a great stained glass church window, fragile and thin against a tapestry of sky woven with wisps of lingering gray cloud. Callum supposed himself lucky they were afforded a view of the sky at all, but the enshrouded building he and his wife called home found itself situated just oddly enough on its block to provide just a sliver from down an adjacent alley and with it, a singular source of natural light. It had been the apartment’s main selling point and one of the only redeeming qualities aside from the self imposed ‘live in’ laundress and landlady whose shop existed just below them. “Small luxuries.” He had reminded Judith with his signature crooked smile. Other windows in the small one bedroom hovel, should they be considered windows at all, provided little for one without imagination. Shadowed, brick faced walls. Shallow, oppressive and with rust covered pipes that snaked upward like unnatural industrial world vines. The main parlor window boasted, also, a particularly pathetic view of the narrow and dismal street below which was often much too crowded during daylight hours. There was an empty chair next to it where he would often sit with the top half of his body exposed to the crisp northern air, a smoldering cigarette between his lips. He would watch passers by, to amuse and pass the time, but only when Judith was sleeping. Her ailment made smoking inside impossible and besides that, she hated the smell. Even when it lingered on his person afterwards she could always find breath enough to complain. A positive in Callum’s eyes as heated argument meant she found herself well enough to spout offense. It would always make him laugh, which only served to intensify her ardor.<br/><br/><br/>This room was also home to the metronomic ticking of many clocks, yet another distraction from life’s various grievances of which Callum had many. The so called “Gilded Age” was no place for an inventor of his merit where so very few companies found purpose for his patents. A time where electrics and combustion engines were quickly outpacing time tested clockwork engineering. Still, his trinkets were his passion and tinkering, a beloved pastime to which other ventures often paled over time spent pondering and posturing and which ultimately never garnered enough attention for him to seriously consider. In fact, a quiet corner of the dwelling had been devoted to his craft entirely. In it sat a rather large table obscured by a great white sheet, draped over many and varied peaks and valleys. A veil to keep the dust at bay. Aside from its many mysteries, a menagerie of whispering clocks and a shabby leather couch and weathered oak coffee table, there was little else by way of furniture or adornment. They had been forced to sell off most of their possessions upon moving into Rouves. When Judith had fallen truly ill.<br/><br/><br/>She had not always been so. Married young, much younger than even their parents before them, they had made a lovely and doting pair. “M’Little Love Birds”, Cal’s mother would often say with her heavy Scottish tongue. Judith had sparkled then, having a brightness to her that was only matched by her wit and charm. It had been an easy fall for Callum. He always told her it was at the moment their eyes had met, that moment when he knew. She still had the gentlest pair of eyes he’d ever seen, smiling even when her mouth wasn’t and the softest shade of sea foam green. His heart ached to look at them ... and to have them look at him, filled with love and warmth.<br/><br/><br/>It had been an unlikely pairing of course. She was the daughter of a proper business man, the owner of a coal refinery, a booming business now. He, the son of a clocksmith, bred from immigrant farmers and just barely American enough to be considered so. As it were, Judith’s father fell deathly ill and passed suddenly. Whispers spoke of melancholy and a gambler’s debt but the cause was never entirely clear. A somber blessing to say the least as it gifted Judith with the freedom to embrace her own life, minus her portion of the family’s inheritance. “A trifle in the face of plain uncertainty.” She called it. True, that no man (or woman) knew their length of time in this world. That she would walk away from fortune to take his hand in marriage was in his mind a great sacrifice, but it had never been that way for her. What a cruel twist of fate that she would find herself at Death’s stoop in just as timely a fashion as her father. Weak and ailing, a beautiful flower left to whither in her bed.<br/><br/><br/>The relocation had been difficult, but deemed necessary for a few reasons. First and foremost, Judith’s condition was considered to be deteriorating and debilitating and her doctor would travel far to see her often. If his visits were to continue in such an increasing fashion then Callum would only find those mild-mannered fists digging deeper into pockets that were becoming increasingly light with his lack of consistent work. Moving into the city eased some of these constraints, lessening the amount of distance and time spent in travel and made Callum himself more available to more monotonous and laborious forms of work which, though would pay much less, would most importantly pay at all. Most recently was work found with a printing company, something which had proven more interesting than he had assumed at face value. Steam powered rotary presses, machines almost as large as the rooms they were built in fascinated him, all the more so as he learned how to operate and repair them. It was monotonous work. Tiresome and dangerous at times, but it was solid. They held many moving parts, all of which required maintenance, general upkeep and a meticulously watchful eye. Stories of men losing fingers or indeed their whole arm came along side cautionary warnings against minor missteps and loose sleeves. Callum kept his own rolled at all times because sometimes fear and respect were familiar bedfellows.<br/><br/><br/>This day was not unlike others. There had been a paper jam at the factory and some of the printing cylinders needed scraping. ‘The Rouves Courant’ was their single largest contract; a weekly news source that required all three of their quad straightline presses for a timely Monday release. This one’s headliner:<br/><br/><b>JACOBS &amp; KEEN MILLING PLANT GOES UP IN FLAMES</b><br/><br/>Accompanied by a tag line:<i>78 workers killed.</i>It was almost always bad news that graced the front page, and there was no shortage of it. Always some new tragedy to whisper and gossip about on the streets, in coffee houses and bars, the fresh market or in transit on the local trolley. Callum did not read the headlines, in fact he read very few of the printed articles that flashed before his eyes, repeated by the hundreds on a spinning shaft. Not fully at least; it was more appropriate to only skim if one were as unwilling as he to pay the penny it was worth. One, however, caught his eye.<br/><i>‘A Surge in Sundries’.</i><br/>Just a small blurb, about a paragraph or so; buried deep on the eighth page and regarding the selling practices of city pharmacies of which some had started to carry items unrelated to the medicines and remedies they were commonly known for. It served nothing more than a reminder that he was due for a visit. To procure some thing for Judith’s ailment. Not a treatment, but a thing for comfort. As she grew only worse, the doctor’s promises grew less convincing over time and he could not abide her suffering.<br/><br/><br/>So it was, in his disheveled fashion of pilling wool overcoat and ink-stained cheeks, that he entered the quiet parlor of an old apothecary; spotted one night before on his return ride home, only now it was just late afternoon. The sun spilled through a half closed shade; bright, but pale. It was cold out, yet the spacious room was warm from the heat of the light. Enough so that he could unbutton and remove his cap from a shock of comb flattened hair, black as jet and sheared short with just the beginning sprinkling of gray. Dust motes danced off broad shoulders as he disturbed their lazy tumble through stale air that smelled of old books and dried herbs. It took a moment for the residual ring of the door frame’s brass bell to fall silent in his ears as he perused all manner of jars and containers lined up on wooden shelves and littering little table tops throughout, white labels denoting purpose or ingredient. He was tall and so, had to stoop to read some more closely. Even had he the faintest clue as to what he was searching for, he was unlikely to find it. The handwritten scrawl on each label was only barely legible, and the eerie quality of silence unnerved him, even during midday. It was akin to the feeling of watchful eyes when there wasn’t a soul in sight. “Hello?” He called out to the quiet, searching for a desk or a counter. “Pardon to disturb. I’ve come in for a tincture ...but hardly have a clue what I’m looking at.” He half whispered the last part as hooded hazel eyes darted from jar to jar, brow knitted in bewilderment.