Your dreams start shaping reality. The first changes arrive in places no one thinks to watch. Constellations slip out of alignment. Not dramatically—just enough that astronomers argue. A star appears slightly dimmer than it was the night before. A familiar cluster loses one point of light, and no one can agree which one it was. …
The Places That Speak I don’t see anything. No shapes in the corners of rooms. No figures standing where they shouldn’t be. No proof that what I’m hearing belongs to the world at all. That’s what frightens me. The city looks ordinary—brick softened by age, windows reflecting a dull sky—but beneath it there’s a pressure, …
I wake up already displaced. The body moves before I decide to. Lungs fill with air that doesn’t belong to me, too shallow, too practiced. I feel suspended just behind the eyes, as if I’ve been hung slightly above myself and pushed forward at the same time—watching, steering, never fully touching. The hands lift. I …
Chapter Three — Into the FrostLight The seam of light carried us deeper into the forest, and with each step the FrostLight changed. It no longer drifted. Here, it clung. It wrapped itself around bark and stone, threaded through the exposed veins of roots, settled beneath leaves as though placed there with intention — heavy …
Chapter Three, Into The FrostLight The forest did not announce the beginning of the next chapter. It simply… shifted. I felt it before I could name it — a subtle misalignment in my chest, like a breath drawn too shallow. The glow that had once pooled obediently at my feet loosened and lifted, threading itself …
They say meeting yourself is a bad omen. In old stories, it means one of you will die. That the universe cannot tolerate duplicates—that something must be corrected, balanced, erased. In some versions, the double doesn’t just replace you; it hunts you, slipping into your life while you dissolve like a smudge rubbed out by …
I was here before the house learned my shape I was here when the land still exhaled. Before the ground was broken into corners. Before names were nailed into place. I existed as a slow awareness—soil remembering rain, stone holding heat long after the sun moved on. I did not need company then. I did …
Continue reading I Was Here Before the House Learned My Shape
The Sound That Means You Are Leaving The sound begins in my chest like an echo looking for its origin. Not pain. Not fear. A vibration—low and vast—like standing too close to something enormous that hasn’t decided whether to speak yet. My ribs hum around it. My heart stutters, trying to match a rhythm it …
The first thing I lose is my name. It doesn’t fall away all at once. It thins. It softens around the edges. Like a word spoken too many times until it stops sounding real. I say it out loud one morning, testing it the way you test a loose tooth. My mouth forms the shape. …
The slope led me to a clearing that smelled faintly of frost and cedar, with light pooling in soft, silvery patterns. Pickles hopped along beside me, his tiny wings fluttering as he sent out a mischievous puff of cinnamon smoke. I waved my hand, laughing, and he twirled in the air, trailing little sparks that …
