Story
Peeking through the window, Faeflux keeps its vigil. Its hourglass casts a gentle light on the man in bed, tracing the map of his years onto his knotted hands as a half-dreamt word, "Cold," escapes his lips. The bitter aroma of herbs steams from a nearby pot. Suddenly, memory and reality blur. The old man is a young boy once more. How many times has Faeflux turned the sands, watching this constant, human "change"? This, it wonders, is what they call "fate," isn't it?
