The Crimson Nebula

Professor Sterling has manned the Apex Observatory for thirty years, maintaining the viewing dome in a state of clinical, surgical sterility. However, his routine contains a suicidal paradox: to reach the upper telescope deck, he chooses to free-climb the ice-slicked maintenance rungs on the tower's exterior—even during blizzards—rather than taking the warm, carpeted spiral staircase inside. Yesterday, while organizing archives, I found a vintage star chart tucked inside a logbook. It depicted a violent, rust-colored nebula I didn't recognize, looking less like a gas cloud and more like a jagged wound. When Sterling saw me holding it, he snatched the paper away and collapsed into the corner, frantically scratching at the dry parchment with his fingernails, sobbing, "It's still hot... why is it still hot?"