The private diary of Dr. Elias Mercer, formerly of Scotland Yard. Written in the year of fog and shadows, 1887.
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October 12
I have just returned from the cell. My hand trembles as I write, not from weakness, but from the weight of words that cling to me like smoke.
The patient — No. 47 — is dying. The doctors speak of his lungs, his frailty, the shadows on his chest. And yet, when he speaks, the air bends toward him, as if even death pauses to listen.
Today, he gave me riddles. Eleven of them. I set them down here, not as evidence, for no court could make sense of them, but for myself. Perhaps, in time, their meaning will unravel. Perhaps not.
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The First Riddle
"A man lies in a city of glass and iron, untouched by women, untouched by love. He finds her not in flesh, but in the smoke of sleep. He kisses her lips that are not lips, and when he wakes, he never wakes again."
I recognized something in his tone. A dream, perhaps. But why begin with love? Or with death? I asked him, and he only smiled.
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The Second Riddle
"A boy throws paper into the wind, though no one sees his hand. It drifts, ignored, until the sky itself folds the paper back into his chest. And no one cries when it falls."
He tapped the table as he said this, mimicking the sound of a child's play. His eyes were distant, but there was grief there, raw and unhidden.
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The Third Riddle
"She folds her sorrow into wings. They carry nothing, and yet they are heavier than stone. When the river takes her away, the birds scatter, but the cranes remain."
I told him it made no sense. He leaned forward, whispered: "Tragedy never needs sense."
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The Fourth Riddle
"A son climbs a roof not for stars, but to escape the earth. He leaves behind no letters, no apologies — only the wind, the blood, and the echo of his mother's scream."
I wanted to stop him. This was too precise, too cruel. But I could not. His words struck like knives, and still he smiled.
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The Fifth Riddle
"A man of reason walks among shadows. He solves puzzles no one asked him to, answers questions no one spoke. In the end, his brilliance is not light but fog — and the truth, like the murderer, is himself."
I know this one. I know it too well. My blood ran cold. He could not have known of the Harrow case. Unless— No. I will not write it.
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The Sixth Riddle
"A girl hated by the world plants a sky of her own. She waters it with tears, feeds it illusions, and lives there until the day she forgets how to return."
I asked him if this was madness. He asked me: "Is your world any less a hallucination?"
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The Seventh Riddle
"A Russian speaks to no one. His words fall on deaf ears, but the silence is applause. Forgotten by his own name, he becomes memory itself — and memory is dust."
There was no expression in his face as he recited this. As though he had read it from a grave.
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The Eighth Riddle
"A boy invisible even to his mother finds one who sees him. Her smile paints his world in color, yet when she turns away, the colors bleed, leaving silence blacker than before."
I heard my pen scratch faster at this one. My own youth echoed there. The ache of invisibility.
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The Ninth Riddle
"There are eyes that see too much. Eyes that cannot close, even when begged. They watch, they record, they damn — but never save. Tell me, doctor, are your eyes not also cursed?"
His stare pierced me then. I confess: I looked away.
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The Tenth Riddle
"Five kings rise and fall before my face, their crowns rust, their bones forgotten. I do not sleep, I do not die. I am the clock, and I keep their time. And when their empires rot, I am still ticking."
His voice broke into a rhythm here, like a pendulum. I swear I heard a tick that was not in the room.
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The Eleventh Riddle
"A deaf boy hears a single song. A girl at the piano, her hands like wings. For him, the world is silence, except for her. And when she dies, silence becomes eternal again."
By this time, my hand had grown stiff, yet I wrote. My heart was beating too loudly in my ears.
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He leaned back after the eleventh riddle, eyes half-closed, breath rattling. I thought he was finished. I rose to leave.
Then, in a whisper that froze me in place, he spoke the last words.
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The Twelfth Riddle
"There is a fool in every story. The dreamer, the lover, the coward, the seer. But one fool is greater than them all — he who believes he is wise. Tell me, Doctor…"
He opened his eyes then, sharp, unblinking, too alive for a dying man.
"Who is the fool?"
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I left the cell. The air outside was colder than the grave. I tell myself these are the delusions of a mind unraveling. That the riddles are mere poetry, stitched nonsense from fever.
And yet…
And yet, I cannot shake the thought that each riddle was not invention but memory. And if memory — then whose?
I fear to return tomorrow. But return I must. For the twelfth riddle remains unanswered.
And perhaps, in the silence of his cell, I will discover not who the fool is — but that it has always been me.
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End of entry.