Writing

There’s a lot I wanted to do,

but somehow my feet stayed still.

Days slipped through my fingers

like sand I forgot to hold.

People ask where I’ve been—

I tell them I’m “fine,”

living in a city I built

Kael’s stone blazed blue in his hand, steady and unyielding. He grinned at me, even now. “Three… two… one—”

I unfolded the fragile page, Kael leaning close as the lantern light caught the writing. My mother’s hand—sharp, deliberate strokes—spread across the paper. I swallowed hard and began to read aloud:

Kael paced the length of the dorm, muttering to himself. “No, no, no, this is bad—this is worse than bad. Purple blood? Orange Luminor? This isn’t random, Ryder. This is connected.”

I never like the face I meet

when morning drags me from my sheets.

The mirror shows a version

that I swear I never chose—

tired eyes, heavy lines,

a stranger wearing all my clothes.

Peering through my window 

is someone peering back at me 

But do not fret, for it’s no man,

It’s Mrs. Chickadee -

And - i think She wants some seeds