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Content Warning: Contains claustrophobic imagery, intense psychological distress, and unsettling bodily descriptions. This skin I wear… it clings to me. A wretched thing. It scowls, yet tightens its grip- like a blanket left to mildew in the rain, steeped in stains no water could lift. I catch my reflection as I pass the stacked shops. My eyes gape like gutted windows, carcasses of themselves- frames where something used to look back. Not human exactly, but something with a sliver of pride, a flicker of warmth. Something I can’t seem to find...
"You're not tying them right," Marta muttered, crouching beside Lina in the shadow of an overflowing laundry cart. The younger girl's fingers trembled around the laces of her boots- boots that weren't hers, boots stolen from a drunken guest's closet three nights ago. "Tighter. Like this." Marta grabbed the silk-tipped laces and cinched them in one sharp pull, knotting them just above the ankle. "If they come loose while you're running, you're dead." Above them, the estate hummed with the pre-hunt gala. Crystal laughter dripped through the ai...
The shears paused in mid-air, blades half-parted around a stray peony stem. His hands- browned by seasons of earth and sun- stilled, though his pulse did not. Silk whispered against dew-damp grass behind him, a sound as unmistakable as birdsong. He didn't turn. Couldn't. The weight of her presence settled between his shoulder blades like sunlight made solid. Her skirts pooled like spilled cream around the wrought-iron bench, its curved legs sinking slightly into the soft earth beneath the willow’s swaying curtain. She never chose the marble ...
October 12th, 1940Found a hole in the fence today. Not just any hole- one of those gaps that doesn’t look like much until you’re already halfway through. Wasn’t even supposed to be out this way, but the patrol route got shifted after last night’s raid, and now here I am, staring at a garden that shouldn’t exist. Not just a garden. A whole greenhouse. Glass panels cracked, and inside- plants. Real ones. October 14thWent back. Couldn’t help it. Saw her this time- woman in a mud-streaked coat, kneeling in the dirt like she was arguing with it. ...
"Christ, you look like you've seen a ghost," said Sergeant Davies, nudging Thomas with an elbow that smelled of damp wool and yesterday's gin. Thomas blinked. The wrench in his hand had gone slack, his fingers numb from the predawn cold. The balloon winch yard was empty except for them and the sentry by the gate, who was stomping his boots to keep circulation going. Across the river, the first bombs of the evening raid were already falling- dull thumps that trembled through the soles of his boots like a second heartbeat. Thomas didn’t answer...
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