𝓓𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓰? 𝓔𝓪𝓬𝓱 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵—𝓪 𝓯𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓑𝓸𝓻𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓪 𝔀𝓪𝓵𝓽𝔃 𝓮𝓹𝓱𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓘𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓮𝓽 𝓪𝓲𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓶.

Wintermorn. The sky, a muted bowl of forgotten pewter, stretches tight over the sleeping world. The air is so still, so cold, that breath crystallizes instantly, dissolving into ghost-smoke that vanishes before reaching the stars. It is the deep,...

With the anatomy of a kiss, a momentary freshnessbefore the descent. A sharp intake of breath settling in the skin, with a faint, undeniable musk of what-was. The bright, metallic ting of a scalpel, with a traceof haunting tongue.