Chapter 28
28. ■■■ ■■ ■■■ Comes
As the moon rode high in the inky expanse of the London night, when even the clamour of this metropolis had subsided into a desolate quiet, there came a timid knock on my chamber door. It was Marie, visiting in an hour when slumber usually took hold, and the city's cacophony was a distant echo.
My room was bathed in the golden glow of every lamp and candle I could ignite, piercing the darkness with defiance. Seated on the edge of my bed in a modest posture, Marie mimicked my actions, saying nothing.
Two curious objects adorned my desk: one, a blackened tome that promised the mysteries of the heavens; the other, a notebook, bearing the name of Marie Curie. My obscure and often clandestine work was laid bare, causing Marie's eyes to flicker with restrained curiosity.
Many a thought and word had I prepared for her, but her presence reduced them to mere echoes in my mind, leaving me wordless. When finally I spoke, it was a raw, unadorned confession.
"Perhaps you are aware, Marie, it was I who bore the responsibility for your death."
Her eyes, glassy and cool as mercury, fluttered with palpable shock.
"Was this knowledge not yours?"
"No," she replied, her voice an off-kilter melody, a fusion of copper and zinc – a symphony of the inanimate and living. It held an eerie beauty, yet lacked the warmth to fully mirror human emotion.