That poor innocent soul was alone in the world before she found her way here. Her father passed away some time ago, he was a telegraph operator, and as fate would have it, the former proprietor of this place also had one laying around. She took to it like a bird to a bath.
Celia Riqueti at age 15. Operating a Telegraph Machine.
Celia Riqueti’s Vignettes
Our world, just as any other is not so much made up tremendous events, and grand scenes, but also little things, tens of thousands of little apparent insignificant things that make up the subtle frameworks of people’s lives.
May 5th
Late into the evening on the edge of The Witching Hour a message sounded out into the Telegraph Station. Celia quietly slept face down at her desk, rousing from her sleep to the sound of an incoming message. The message repeated three times as she tried to collect herself to translate the dots and dashes.
She wrote it down swiftly and read it quietly to herself.
“In the hallows of night, do the forgotten dead respite. . .”
Celia felt a chill go down her arms, as she watched the candles left burning… They were reduced by the wax that mounted over and slowly descended to the floor from the desk. The silence of the room hung over her shoulders, and the weight of it increased until at last she blew out the candles and left her room until morning, unable to sleep.