The honesty of the Rotunda. The ink columns that surround me. The marble tiles I step on each and every day. For how many days? It's been so long.

Fortunately, the Dawn's mystic amber led me to remember why I was there.

The long marble table looked especially bland, but it made the breakfast look much more appetizing, even though its fragrance paired with my growling stomach caused it. After the decadent meal, I stood up and pushed my chair back.

My room waited for me two floors above, through two endless spirals of mahogany stairs. The stares of gargoyle statues followed me. They kept me guarded. Following were the two halls I still struggle to tell apart. Both are aligned with framed portraits of pioneers and nobles who I've never met. Same china, embroidery in the carpets, and two dying torches. Yards down the left hall, my door was ajar.

I paused to observe the sounds from the room, but I realized my footsteps were enough to silence them.

Inside, my red-maned friend peered at me with his blond feline eyes. It was clear when he positioned my candles on my nightstand, his clumsy hands, paired with loose furs and talons, inconvenienced him. I noticed he had perfected every inch of the room. The curtains were closed shut. My bedding was washed and neatened. Even the vast space of only black carpet in the center of the room was more cared for than I could ever do.

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I smiled for him to hand me the candle for me to light. I produced a small flame on my fingertip, and started the kindle.

The red of my friend's blood showed even through his fur from hovering it over the fire. It surely matched his beating heart. I could see that well.

The beating of hearts pound in my ears. No matter the day. No matter the hour. Sadly, I couldn't say the same for my blood.

Soon, he left the room after I reassured him hundreds of times over that he isn't obligated to do things I don't ask for.

Once his heart faded from my range, I scanned the room.

There was a space he did neglect. Threads tangled in threads. Short frames, tall frames, cracked frames, all blanketing the floor. The novel dolls I collected for childrens' company over my time. My books fell victim to aging with cobwebs and torn spines.

But hidden behind the fiasco were the most untouchable. Jars... Jars filled with essence. I can still hear the hearts of those it belonged to. Its pounding was unmistakable.

My drapes folded and ripped under the decayed wood and devastated glass. Five beautiful jars filled with life. Rose. Deep cherry. Maroon. Written on old rag paper was a name that rang in my ears for so long.

I twisted off the lid, only to hear the beating slow. The metallic scent started to fade.

"The beating's gone..." I whispered to myself. "The blood's dying..."