Fragile Echoes
The air tasted like rain and cinnamon. It clung to my skin, a thick, viscous sweetness that made it hard to breathe, yet I didn’t want to. Not really. Because breathing was difficult anyway. Mostly, I just drifted. Drifted through…
trauma
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The Weaver’s Knot
The rain in Bristol clung to everything – the cobblestones slick with a pewter sheen, the damp brick of Ashton Mead Gardens leaning into the perpetual gloom. It smelled of wet earth and something older, a decaying sweetness that clung…
Echoes of Blackwood
The rain hammered the redwood cliffs, a relentless percussion against the grey sea. Steam curled from the copper tubs overflowing with fragrant herbs and bruised berries at Blackwood Springs. Inside, Silas traced circles on the condensation-slicked glass with a calloused…
The Bloom After the Storm
The chipped Formica felt cool under Leo’s palms. He kneaded, pushed, folded—each motion a futile attempt to work out the knot in his chest. Rye dough. It smelled like…everything. Like his grandmother’s kitchen, like Sundays, like a life he couldn’t…