From scattered notes
File :1232941761.png-(84 KB, 241x409, monte_sketch.png)
[The pages are old, worn, the fire that consumed much of the lab having touched them. Some are still legible, however, though none are in any discernible order.]
...eemed I am not alone. Not unique, in my making.
I am ambivalent about this. On one hand, I feel a sort of loss at this knowledge, that in this world I am not singular. But, on the other, I have others of whom share my terrible burden and fate, and to know such brings some warmth to this unbeating heart.
We met at the graveyard. She was tall, slender, pale and carrying herself with a grace that was strange to look upon. We knew one another on sight for what we were, though at the time I admit my initial confusion.
Daniella. She explained, for hours, of our sad state of affairs and what to expect, and of her own pilgrimage. A subject that has taken her fifty years with no end in sight.
A cold comfort.