Act I: The Man Who Mistook His Shadow for a Séance The hospital’s seventh floor hummed with the static of unmonitored heartbeats. Dr. Marlow’s office—a crypt of velvet drapes and chessboards missing their queens—smelled of bergamot and unsent letters. Her patient, Arthur Vale, 51, sat coiled in the chair, his voice a scratched vinyl of … Continue reading Dr. Marlow and the Horny Grief Moths →