Naji glanced at his clock. Eighteen hours since he last slept. He locked himself in his makeshift lab thirteen days ago and made no progress since then. Naji leaned over his desk and stared out the window. The streets were deserted, fresh snow blanketed the city, and fires burned here and there—some to warm vagrants without homes, others to cleanse the dead from disease. He yearned for the view he once knew, before the quarantine, a pleasant view from high in his tower of a city full of life. Now the city was nearly as dead as its people.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind and returned to his work. His desk reflected his mind. Papers strewn across it and the remnants of failed experiments mocked him. They derided his efforts to save them. How could he be so foolish? To think he alone would save the city—no, the world—from a plague that has hidden its truths from the world’s brightest minds. To think he could push the boundaries of science and discover those truths. To think he could become the world’s hero.

Naji snapped his pen as his body tightened at the indignation of such thoughts. He picked up a piece of paper, a list of all known symptoms. Fever, vomiting, hysteria, hallucinations, false memories, necrosis. The list continued. Nearly sixty percent of those affected ended their illness in death. Survivors were often left disabled, their minds gone mad, leaving them unable to care for themselves or others. Man, woman, young, old, it didn’t matter who they were, there was no pattern, no sliver of hope a scientist could cling to. There were no clues to the cause of its symptoms nor the origin of its creation. Yet the world worked endlessly to find a cure.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Naji sighed and cleared his desk. At the edge lay a stack of papers in a box, neatly tucked away from the rest. A scrap pile of work that led to dead ends and worthless notes. He closed the box and walked to his fireplace, placing the box gently inside. He sat in his chair and watched the flames dance. The heat warmed him just as the fires outside warmed those vagrants. The same fires used to slow the plague.

In his hand, he still held a paper, the list of symptoms he studied hundreds of times. Fever, vomiting, hysteria, hallucinations, false memories. False memories. The words echoed in his head as it throbbed with pain. False memories. And he remembered his notes. The ones that contained his answer, the hidden truths that have evaded the minds of the world. The notes that led to the cure. The notes he set aside from the rest. His mind awoke from its delirium and he sprang forth in an effort to save the papers consumed by flames. But his efforts were in vain.

He knelt before the fire for a while and wondered why ash filled his scorched hands. His eyes shifted to his arms and he wondered why his flesh hung loose—decaying, rotting.