A Lisbon master typesetter descends to his basement at midnight, the bolt left open for the first time in two months, to set a confession in Garamond italic for the wife asleep upstairs. Mário Vasconcelos has lied to Helena every night for fifteen years, and tonight, letter by metal letter, he begins to tell her why. A slow, granular sleep story about ink, fado, and the weight of a single curl on a lower-case a.