The stag’s mouth opened. It didn't speak. It chewed . Slowly, deliberately, it crunched on something that glittered—a shard of a broken teacup, the one that would never come back together. The sound was wet, musical, and obscene.
The rain over Florence was a curtain of needles, each one stitching the grey sky to the terracotta rooftops. Will Graham stood at the window of his borrowed office, watching the water sluice down the gutters like blood thinning in a sink. He didn't see Florence. He saw the stag. Hannibal Serie
It stood in the corner of the room, antlers scraping the frescoed ceiling. Its coat was the color of wet ash, and its eyes were the exact brown of a tailored three-piece suit. It didn't breathe. It never did. It was a collection of antlers and absence, a ghost wearing the shape of a beast he’d once tried to cage. The stag’s mouth opened
Outside, the rain stopped. Florence gleamed like a knife under fresh oil. Will Graham stood at the window of his