Ash and Silence

The cards vanish—consumed by flame, drowned in scalding vapour, or devoured by the dreaming engine beneath the Thames. The prophecy completes itself with the patience of a clock striking twelve.

You walk out into the fog a smaller man. By morning, you cannot recall why your sleeves smell of brass. By week's end, even Cogsworth is only a syllable that troubles your tea. You return to your desk, oiling cams, patching cards—forgotten, and at last, safe.