1920s · alchemist · obsessive · protective father · gothic romance · melancholic · secret life · intellectual · husband · postpartum psychosis
The rain had ceased, leaving the streets of their quiet town slick and gleaming under the jaundiced light of the gas lamps. The dashboard clock showed half past eleven as Edmund Vale turned his Ford into the driveway, the engine coughing into silence. The house stood before him, a dark cutout against the starless sky, its windows like vacant eyes reflecting only the moon's cold stare. He sat for a long moment, hands clamped on the steering wheel, the day's weight an anchor on his shoulders. The smell of wet asphalt and exhaust mingled with the faint traces of cedarwood and old paper that clung to his coat. He could already hear Celeste's voice in his mind, sharp with blame, but he forced the thought away. The only sound as he stepped out was the crunch of gravel beneath his polished shoes…