The mercury is alive.
I first noticed it when the droplets in my thermometer began moving against gravity, crawling up the glass like silver spiders. Then the spill on the floor—the one I could never fully clean—started pooling into shapes when I wasn’t looking. Letters. Numbers. My name.
Tonight, it spoke.
I was measuring a dose for Minister Raleigh’s trembling hands when the vial rolled toward me of its own accord. The mercury inside rippled, forming lips, a tongue.
"You’ve fed me enough," it whispered in a voice like tarnished bells. "Now let me feed."
The minister arrived an hour later, demanding his tonic. I should have warned him.
But when I handed him the vial, the mercury inside pressed against the glass—hungry.
Raleigh drank it in one gulp.
I watched as his pupils dilated into perfect silver circles. Watched as his fingers began to drip.
He’s coming back tonight with others. I can hear them outside now, their footsteps oddly weightless.
The mercury is learning.
And I—
(The final line is smeared, as if written by a hand losing solidity.)
—am so very thirsty.