Whispers in the fog. What do they say? Facing what? It doesn’t make sense.
Everywhere he went, the Taciturn Doctor heard the snatches of conversation. Saw small crowds under eaves suddenly disperse. Always whispering. Their little secrets eaten by the mist. An odd sense of familiarity. Cat got your what?
Sunk like a stone in a river, a perforated corpse washes up on a bed of mud. Polluted waters for a pillow. A shredded tongue for a binky.
Professional interest. the Taciturn Doctor climbs from bridge, eyes like smoked glass and a mind full of storm. Would the body recover? What caused it to sink so? A grim faced idol guerns from a coat pocket prison and it all seems so familiar. A thunderclap of recognition.
This has happened before.
It’s happening again.
This has happened before.
It’s happening again
It will happen.
The Taciturn Doctor falls to his knees, tear stricken pleading to grime, stone and the cruel fate of words.
"Please… let me go, let it all go."
But he can’t let go.
It has happened.
It will happen.
It happens.
Who is the Face Tailor?