Hidden Morozov and the Drafting-Lantern Loft Where His Angles Lost Their Nerve

A taut hush inhabits Morozov House, heaviest in the abandoned drafting-lantern loft where Pavel Dmitrievich Morozov, a modest Russian engraver of regional maps, once bent over lanternlit contours. Now the wavering axis on his plate lingers like the breath of an answer he feared to follow.

An Axis Beneath the Engraver’s Steady Hand

Pavel, born 1871 in Kazan, learned calibration from his uncle Sergei Morozov, whose cracked compass lies beside the table’s far corner.

His evenings unfolded with fixed devotion: warming ink stones near a lantern’s glow, tracing elevation lines in slow increments, scaling rivers by counting each notch aloud. His order remains—burins sorted by fineness, grids weighed down with pebbles, measuring ropes coiled in deliberate loops. Even the worn edge of his stool recalls where he braced himself when a feature resisted proper alignment.

Where His Precision Slipped Beyond Control

Quiet rumor said Pavel’s latest commission—a terrain plate for a shipping office—misrepresented a critical gradient, prompting complaints and a threat of formal inquiry. In the upper corridor, Sergei’s compass pouch lies torn at the clasp. A fallen ruler rests against the wainscoting, its increments smeared. A correction sheet hangs from a nail, last columns struck through with frantic strokes. A coil of rope has rolled toward the stair, unwinding into loose serpentine arcs. None of these fragments confirm guilt, yet each leans toward a burden he could not quiet.

Only the wavering axis etched into his last plate remains—an unfinished measure suspended in stillness. Whatever stilled Pavel’s craft lingers unresolved.

Morozov House remains abandoned still.