The Unofficial King of Cranston

<p><em>It's not in Cranston. It's on Cranston Street. That's different.</em></p><p><em>Technically it's an old armory in Providence. But inside the maps stop working. The cones rotate. The shadows run cold. </em></p><p></p><p><em>The King doesn't rule exactly. But he files ghost permits names stairwells and speaks to the radiator like it's an oracle. No one told the city to stop him.</em></p><p></p><p><em>When a new assistant arrives they begin keeping field notes. Lemon-scented hauntings. Whisper-drain protocols. A stairwell tuned to grief. What started as a maintenance job becomes something stranger. Less employment. More initiation. Into care. Into myth. Into staying put when everything else disappears.</em></p><p></p><p><em>The Unofficial King of Cranston is a darkly funny quietly aching novella about soft infrastructure ritual power and the strange hauntings we call maintenance.</em></p><p></p>