He squinted at the calendar; the dates bled into one another, fractals of unease.
It was a Tuesday wrapped in velvet whispers. Something lurked behind the veil of normalcy.
[A Note from the Basement]
A phone rang, dislocated from its owner, vibrating like the heart of a caged beast.
As he stepped into the ruined chapel, stories of the forgotten flooded his senses.
Questions arose, knitted into the very fabric of dust motes: Where did the crimson go? Why is it always Tuesday?
The forest groaned with secrets, yawning whispers, shrouded enigmas ticked like clocks.
He heard laughter on the wind – childlike, mocking, a symphony of fear wrapped in the promise of hidden joys.
Enumerate the parts, he thought idly, but the mind was a riddle he could not soon solve.