The first thing he saw was a cracked mirror
above a washstand, his face blurred by time and
tarnish. No name on the ledger. No record in the
linen drawer. Only a silver stethoscope coiled
like a serpent around his wrist. The house
smelled of damp wool and lavender—too much
lavender. He stepped barefoot onto cold stone
flags. A clock ticked backward.
Outside, the village huddled under a sky bruised
purple and gold. The moon was not full. It was
halfsundered, a jagged crescent splitting the
heavens. That was impossible. The moon had
always been whole in the records. But here, in
this place, the moon’s phase altered reality:
every fortnight, flesh rewrote itself. Not all
at once. Not for everyone. Only those with
“marked blood” felt the change—their bones
cracking, their eyes turning amber, their teeth
lengthening into fangs. The villagers called it
the Unmaking. They buried the unmade in shallow
graves before dawn.
He found a journal in the desk drawer. Ink
smudged, pages torn. One entry read: “If I wake
again, do not let me touch the window.” Below, a
sketch of a man with hollow eyes, standing
beneath a fractured moon. His own hand had drawn
it.
At the apothecary, the shopkeeper handed him a
vial without speaking. “For the fever,” she said.
The liquid shimmered like mercury. He drank it.
The taste was copper and cold earth. His skin
crawled. For three hours, he watched his
fingernails split open and reknit into claws.
When it stopped, he could still feel the wolf
beneath his ribs—a growl that wasn’t his.
That night, the moon began its descent. The
villagers lit torches. Children screamed as
their mothers clutched them close, whispering
prayers to saints who never answered. In the
churchyard, a man staggered out of the dark—his
jaw unhinged, spine bent like a bow. He lunged
at a child. The doctor raised his stethoscope.
It rang like a bell. The creature froze. Then
fell to its knees, weeping. Not in pain. In
recognition.
He remembered then—not the man he’d been, but
the truth he’d forgotten: he had been the last
to cure the condition. Years ago, he’d developed
a serum that suppressed the lunar mutation. But
the elders feared it would break the balance. So
they took his memories. Burned his notes. Exiled
him.
He walked back through the town, the serum now
in his pocket—only one dose left. At the edge of
the woods, another figure emerged. A woman in a
riding habit, her eyes wide with terror. She
didn’t run. She waited. Her fingers trembled.
When she spoke, it was not in words. It was a
sound from deep inside her throat—like a wolf
learning language.
He handed her the vial. She drank it. Her body
convulsed. Her hair turned white. Her hands
shrank. The wolf within her collapsed inward.
She stood upright, gasping, tears cutting tracks
through the dust on her cheeks.
Then the moon snapped fully. A single, deafening
crack split the sky. The ground shook. The trees
groaned. The next wave was coming—worse than
before.
He did not wait. He ran. Not away. Toward the
hill where the old asylum stood. Where the vials
were stored. Where the last cure might still be.
By dawn, the moon was whole again. The village
slept. The graves remained unopened.
But in the hills, a single light burned in the
asylum window. And inside, a man in a coat
stained with blood sat at a table, writing in a
new journal.
The ink was black. The words were clear.
“This time, I will remember everything.”
