March 14, 1974.
Location : District Nine, Jawdeo.
The air in Jawdeo no longer carries oxygen; it carries the dust of decaying history. Here, in the heart of this dying civilization, the sun is but a sliver of pale silver quivering behind an eternal haze of industrial pollution. The light no longer provided warmth, but only emphasized the long shadows that crept across the damp brick walls.
I, Seosamh Moireach, sit in a cramped office, surrounded by stacks of yellowing papers and the ticking of a wall clock that sounds like the tap of a judge's gavel on a coffin. Before me lay an old copper "Last Note" instrument emitting a low hum, a frequency I not only heard with my ears, but felt vibrating in the marrow of my bones. This was the last vestige of my family, an inheritance that felt more like a curse than a blessing.
Every day, Jawdeo felt more cramped. The city's cold, rigid bureaucracy tried to convince us that everything was fine, but the report I'd smuggled from the filing desk said otherwise. The sun is not only covered by clouds; He disappeares. There is a hole in the sky that cannot be explained by this shallow human science. Cold emptiness, as if a giant hand was slowly extinguishing the candles in our living room.
I felt the "Silent Rot" starting to spread. This morning, I forgot the name of the street where I lived for ten years. This reality began to tear apart, like an old cloth being pulled by an invisible force.
Tonight, the humming sound of this instrument changed pitch. It no longer just buzzes; he whispered. Her whisper spoke a name that made my blood run cold, a name that should only have existed in the bedtime stories my grandfather told me: Wiccantorr. The tower called. Not with sound, but with emptiness that pulls my soul out of this mortal shell.
I have to go. Before Jawdeo completely became a silent pile of ashes. Before the memory of me is erased by this indifferent cosmos.