Kintsugi Moves

We may be chipped, but we still move forward.

☕✨☕

Broken mugs on the table,

Waiting for glue

From sticky fingers and fragile selves.

But some cracks stay,

Slight, hidden—

But firm.

☕✨☕

The mug’s splinters ease

Under soft skin.

I mend,

A wan smile packed with unseen tape.

Paint over it

Without tracing the lines

To their start.

☕✨☕

Molten gold shines,

Glinting, flowing

Through the cracks.

Still present—

Fused—

Patterned—

Though open.

☕✨☕

The mug sits,

Chipped, but still holds coffee.

A heart that sings,

Even if its tune

Falters.

Usable.

☕✨☕

Slighted, but grasps tea,

Its heart still hums, though off-key.

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The Map That Traced Itself Part 2

Some maps don’t like being drawn–they prefer to hold the pen.

🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭

Elias tried to get on his feet, but Historian’s curiosity got the better of the young man.

Something felt off. And it wasn’t just the map.

His eyes scanned the Archives. Familiar. Yet not.

They were no longer arranged according to Dewey Decimal System– but alphabetically, in sets spelling his name.

Street names were strangely misspelt. Buildings on the map seemed to have walked–

They had switched positions.

Panic rushed through his veins. He looked out the window.

Buildings hadn’t changed places on just the map– it had happened on the very Street he lived.

The world.

Possibly his life.

Rewritten.

🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭🧭

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My Reflection

Not all reflections are friendly.

🪞👁️🪞👁️🪞

Mirror all ready—

My reflection gives a wink,

Right after I do.

🪞👁️🪞👁️🪞

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

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The Silence in Her Hands

Today, October 6th, is when the Nobel Peace Prize winners start being announced.

Peace is lived, not viewed—-through the eyes of a child.

🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️

Home was alien to Eunice; it was her first time back there after years of documenting conflicts in war-torn countries.

The house remained as it was when she left her parents and the neighborhood—a decrepit riverside garden, walls overwhelmed by creeping bougainvillea,

Yet, the vibrance of the flowers locked the eyes of the young photojournalist.

The creeping vines throbbed with an unrest that mirrored hers—

Permanent and unresolved.

She stepped into the garden as though it was a shattered fragment of the world she now knew—chasms of chaos.

Even in the silence, she recalled the roar of broken cities.

She breathed in the still air and shut her eyes.

Broken buildings.

The holler of exploding bombs.

🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️

Eunice tried to realign with life as it should be—

Normal and uneventful.

Bomb free.

But falling bombs and the cries of motherless children were stalkers she could not shake off

Her camera lingered, untouched, on a shelf.

She volunteered at a local community center, trying to forget the unsettling images she had captured for Life magazine.

Images with an unrelenting grip.

Then, she met Tomo.

The five-year-old was hard of speech—his drawings spoke for him.

Louder than the spoken word.

The children he played with drew to his silence.

The surreal calm of the mountains and lakes he painted.

Children who played together, the colours of the skin and mind linked—

Not a barrier.

🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️

On an afternoon at the centre, hollers that kissed the sound barrier.

Human tsunamis formed in the city streets, swallowing buildings.

A fire had consumed a building nearby.

Screams.

Anarchy.

Fragments of Eunice’s mind.

The nightmares she had borne, that her heart now unfollowed.

The photo journalist within reached for her camera, then stopped.

Realisation gripped her arms.

🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️

One that she followed. She helped to lead the children in two lines, an adult picture of calm, down the fire escape.

Firefighters doused the raging flames in a matter of minutes.

She helped to bring the charred garden back to life—to a place of reflection, community, and shared stillness.

And came to know that peace couldn’t just arrive; it had to came in parts, with gestures of gratitude, sincerity, and above all—

Tolerance.

🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️

Eunice left the camera behind, an unwanted memory puzzle piece, forever.

She had to live, not capture, stories of peace.

Her eyes fell on Tomo, sketching a dove in the garden.

The world she left behind raged, but the garden buzzed with gentle truth.

And the quietest persons— and moments—held the greatest power.

🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Perfect Putt

Every perfect swing has its price.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

Lara stood on the championship golf course, waiting for the tee-off. Whispers drifted from the stands–everyone wanted to see if she would return.
A title that was hers–unless fate planned otherwise.
The murmurs of the crowd were far away–as if the world had converged on that grass patch.
She felt the familiar hunger of ambition, in answer to the crowd.
Too loud, too urgent.
Then a glint that drew her gaze.
Waiting
Patient.
Demanding.
From the 7th tee.
The others were too caught up in the game to notice.
The smell of cut grass strengthened and swallowed.
Around her, leaves blew, rustling–
Without wind.
But a warning.

Lara reached downward, her fingers wrapping around the glinting tee.
The shot was too perfect.
Straight and equidistant.
Of course, cameras did equally perfect zooms. The commentators hailed the miracle
Then the green grass around it wilted, and the sand split.
Fissures appeared on a nearby mound.
A lone red robin appeared on it–
Dead.
Her caddy hollered a warning; not that the officials heard.
But she was too close to the title to stop her swing.
A crack.
Under her feet.
Lara kept swinging and winning.
Each swing carved into the mound, making cracks.
Deeper and deeper.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

Lara took her final swing.
The ground responded, trembling more than the St. Andreas Fault.
The fissures were invisible–at least to the clamouring spectators.
Roaring the win.
They raced towards her, unknown to them.
But Lara knew–
Her perfect putt had carved too deep.
The trophy was within sight–
On cracking ground.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

The spectators cheered in a roaring wave, moving forward, oblivious to the danger.
The ground beneath Lara crumbled into a gaping hole.
Wider.
And wider.
Applause rose, blind to the widening chasm.
She grasped the trophy–
The Earth gave way faster than a sonic boom.
She had to decide–to hold with both hands and fall–
Pride’s prey.
Or release—
And breathe. At last.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

Lara’s fingers were in iron cuffs; the fissure threatened to swallow.

The roar of the crowd deafened, a drum that lured.

The gaps between Lara’s fingers turned chasms themselves.

into an open palm.

Sweaty, but breathing.

She released.

With a breath that finally soothed her overwrought limbs.

Salved her heart—and spirit.

The spectators gaped, mid-stare.

The silence washed over the greens, a gripping shroud.

Then, they scattered their disappointment felt—but forgone.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

The hole swallowed the crowd, its cheers curdling, then dying off.

The crowd’s roar had dulled into silence.

A leaf rustled, accompanying the lone golfer.

It was a magnificent scar on the course—one some reporters hailed a legend.

Others, a tragedy of Tsunami magnitude.

The iron cuffs—off her hands.

Lara’s trophy had lodged itself within the wide crack, gleaming to applause—

That would remain heard—

Only by Lara.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

Skin’s Disguise

We wear dolls to cover our skin.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

I step outside in the evening—

A quiet movement,

Sliding the day’s doll

Off my bones.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

They feel raw.

Words unsaid.

I must choose which doll

To wear today.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

One for the classroom

Smiling, uncreased;

Sparkling for bright students.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

Another for family;

Patient, listening

Words said on cue.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

Another for friends;

Practiced, polished.

Laughter honed, well-timed.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

But in one doll

Not displayed

Creases ironed

Skin that recalls

Every hurt experienced.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

I do not wear it.

Too bare.

Too raw.

Better left alone,

Well-pressed

Than risk a crowd

With a fearsome gaze.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

But the shell uncovers.

It unfolds.

The costume of skin

A disguise that works

Unnoticed.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

Should you see me next,

Don’t look me in the eye.

My bare skin works best

Unseen.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

But if the light shines right

You might catch the folds.

Carefully pressed.

Beneath it,

Something stirs.

🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭🎭👁️🎭👁️🎭

Do you have Russian dolls? Which do you wear the most?

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

Parallel Lives

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Mara stepped out of her home onto her driveway—she knew each stone by heart.

But it seemed that what she knew by heart had to be relearned.

Fog clouded the street beyond, giving the otherwise familiar street an unnatural white hue. It had rained just an hour before; the puddles caught the lamplight like unlived fragments of her memory.

She caught sight of herself in a puddle. It seemed to blink—almost a stranger.

And the familiar street felt—

Different.

Unvisited.

A place unheard of.

Her life stretched before her—one that felt borrowed.

The university education that her parents couldn’t afford.

The job she passed up to care for her ailing parents.

She felt the tug of life just beyond her reach—so near, yet so far.

Each drop of rain seemed to whisper regret for what might have been; what could still be.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

She passed the park bench she and James used to sit—

For hours.

Talking.

The masculine scent of his aftershave.

The armrest he had vandalised with Cupid hearts.

She passed the music store they used to frequent—and the piano his fingertips used to grace.

A virtuoso.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

The windows of her mind opened to James boarding a plane at the airport.

Fixing a lingering gaze on her as he entered the boarding gate.

Another image—odd.

Different.

Pulsing.

Of herself, following him.

Her mind veered back to the familiar street—yet not.

A gust of wind, howling, urgent, pushing her in.

Drops of rain pelted the gray cobblestone—

The black umbrella.

One they used to laugh under on days like this.

She paused mid-step, tears drenching her cheeks.

Her mother.

Him.

Not both.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

She found herself back on the street—

Known.

Yet unknown.

The gray hues of the cobblestone were now a strange white.

The white ceramic floors of the university.

She passed a cafe—open where the legal library should have been.

Music streamed from a window—from a piano.

With her mom’s cries of pain—in sync.

She’d wanted to learn that.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

Herself, in a nurse’s uniform, helping her sit up.

Her mother’s tears streaming—

Down a relieved, smiling face.

The smells from the cafe teased her nostrils.

She was herself, walking.

Through the university’s halls.

Carrying legal ledgers, laughing with friends from law school.

Nurse. Her mom.

Lawyer.

Her heart—yanked.

Spinning, overwhelmed—in both directions.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

She stopped at a puddle and gazed at herself.

In her nurse’s uniform, pressed neatly.

Herself again, in the cafe’s window.

Donning a judge’s robes.

Both with raised right hands.

One mirrored the other.

Uncomfortable.

False.

Nurse.

Lawyer.

Not both.

Her heart yanked again—landing in place with a soft thump.

Of knowing.

That she had chosen a path.

One she could not forgo.

That she had to continue walking.

She heard her mother’s breathing, now quiet.

Relieved.

Stable.

Together with laughter from the university’s halls—from herself, in a judge’s robes.

Both sounds—pleasant.

Harmonious.

Mara the nurse..

The fiancée who was.

All had to walk along that street.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Mara stood on the pavement, the gray cobblestone she knew facing her.

In her nurse’s uniform, on the way to the hospital where her mum recovered in a ward.

Her face clear, smiling, in a puddle.

The lamplight grounded her feet firmly, pushing them forward.

In the cafe window—herself, in judge’s robes, waving a poignant goodbye.

Smiling—through tears.

The sound of her mother’s breathing reverberated calmly, pelting in rhythm with the raindrops on her umbrella.

She paused at another puddle.

Herself, in a judges robes, smiling.

Then James, in the airport lounge.

Staring.

She reached.

Then pulled back.

The plane had no seat for her.

Reached again—and withdrew.

Her heart yanked.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

.If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Office Games

The climb ends where trust falls.

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

“Morning all,” Dylan Koh’s bass voice turned the office into a boombox. “Thank you for your presence this lovely September morning.”

One that resounded in a room no larger than a child’s bedroom.

With the Famous Five–except friendship was off the cards.

The office never felt so much like a cage.

Its prisoners–five accountants eager to make–

The Climb.

The air had a metallic tang, distinct–

Blood on coins.

A low groan emitted from the ceiling.

Anton, Susan, Paul, and Fiona each had a drive to succeed that was legendary—and would make participants in The Apprentice blush.

Dylan, the CEO of Raintree Finances, continued.

“The five of you are Raintree’s nominees to succeed the outgoing Chief Financial Officer, Desmond Sim. ” He couldn’t resist a smirk. “But you need to prove that you have what it takes to fill his shoes.”

“Each of you must complete a series of tasks. The objective? To be the only one left on the corporate ladder. To eliminate–” he paused, “and be the ONLY one left standing. Literally.

The five shot glares at each other that could pierce the plasterboard walls.

“I’m game. ” Fiona’s gravelly v

ice seemed stronger than usual.

“Me too.”Anton was louder, not to be outdone.

The rest sat up straight.

Stoic.

Nodding.

Determined.

The walls of the room seemed too tight.

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

The trained accountants found the first task—

Ordinary.

Auditing a few books was of no consequence.

But they soon increased in–

Complexity.

They found themselves having to locate vital, secret files and label them all to be declared challenge winners.

Each red-marked, as if bleeding.

Of course, Fiona mislabelled one–by ACCIDENT.

Susan misplaced another—again, by ACCIDENT.

Each “accident” added weight to their breathing.

Trust was a major casualty–a mere nod was a lie.

The calculators on the table seemed to click, tallying each mistake

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

It was neck and neck–ALL four contestants overcame the initial challenges.

To face the Penultimate Task.

One which demanded–

Compromise.

Of self.

Paul and Susan succumbed—choosing right over ruthlessness undid them–integrity was too slow for mercy.

Anton and Fiona remained in separate rooms.

The task?

To sign a doctored statement or forfeit the game.

The walls of the office seemed to pause their approach; the beat of the staplers on the tables halted.

Waiting.

For betrayal.

Fiona caught sight of Paul mulling over the document; his form was still visible through a transparent window.

He raised his pen.

She raised hers.

Ambition struck quicker than mercy.

Dylan emerged from his room with the document.

Signed by himself.

Ceding trust.

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

For the employees–there had been no promotion.

The climb ends where trust falls.

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

.If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here

Voices of Her Heart

Single mum Sarah dragged the toothbrush over her teeth, not excited at the prospect of another endless day of endless rants from a micromanaging boss.

She paused in the middle of drawing circles over them and gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

Her gaze stayed on her wrinkles and furrows.

She seemed–

Older. Empty.

Joyless.

Visions of her heart.

Her boss screamed at her over the deadlines she’s not met yet– noisy muzak in her ears.

She tossed and turned in bed that night, trying to come up with a way to finish a pending project.

No answers.

Instead, whispers.

Her body stiffened.

She cracked her neck.

She chalked it up to tiredness and threw her head back onto the pillow.

Then, dreams.

Of how her boss at humiliated her in front of a customer–

Incompetent.

Irresponsible.

Of her being unable to finish preparing a simple dish of fried noodles.

Herself, missing a phone call from the job agency informing her of a new position–and a higher salary.

She sat up with a start.

The room seemed emptier– more silent than usual.

She had installed solid wood floors in the rooms.

But– creaks.

The whispers continued, now clearer.

“You’ll never be…you’ll never be….”

Too coordinated.

With her heartbeat.

Her 10-year-old daughter knocked at the door.

“Mom, you screamed louder than my friends in the playground. What’s wrong?”

She pushed the little girl back to her bedroom, blushing at seem to be her own little-girl nightmare.

“Get to sleep. School tomorrow.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

The whispers increased in volume.

Sarah begin to feel someone gripping her toes when she wore shoes.

She could no longer chalk the voices up to imagination.

Scenes of herself failing at making sales grew clearer.

More intense.

Along with her guilt.

When she thought of her little girl.

The whispers turned into half-phrases.

” You’ll never be…”

She chalked them up to fatigue. But she couldn’t afford failure.

Her daughter.

But they were just too loud.

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

Then, the whispers stopped.

Sarah could finally sleep—

For a few days.

Then, she heard them again.

But louder each night.

Until—

A clear voice.

Cold.

Commanding.

“You’ll never make a sale. You’ll never be.”

It knew exactly when her presentations would fail.

“They’ll laugh at you.”

The gripping at her toes moved up to her ankles– feeling the tug– even when she was awake.

She stumbled about in her own home– once nearly falling down the stairs.

Then visions of herself telling her daughter that she couldn’t buy her toys because there were no sales.

Her daughter’s face.

Covered in tears.

Then, the work papers she brought home turned into–

Something different.

“You’ll never be” — scrawled in bright red across each page.

One night, really loudly.

” You’ll never be enough.”

She shot up in bed, stunned.

The ominous sound seemed to sync with her heart.

She heard it again.

” I’ve always been here. You’re a good listener.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

Sarah woke up the next morning, humming to herself as she prepared breakfast.

She knew what it meant.

She couldn’t listen anymore– she had to make a sale this month.

And she did.

The client was completely engaged– he only had to sign the papers.

They arranged to sign them at her office the next day.

He was about to put the pen to paper.

Loud.

In her head.

” You’ll never be.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here

White Rose Bouquet

The day was ending for Moira; she’d had an unexpectedly large number of orders from the community’s hospital.

A name among them rang.

She knew it, but didn’t want to recall.

She was about to pull down

the shutters when—

A knock.

Too long. Too purposeful. Too much like something–

Familiar.

Mira paused in the middle of packing a bouquet of roses, their thorns pricking her fingers.

A few drops of blood on the white petals—but they unnerved.

The knock was, by all means, ordinary.

A short.

Sharp.

Rap.

But it sounded strange, pressing against her nerves.

Her hand paused between the roses, her fingers twitching.

Too… insistent, resounding in her mind’s recesses.

A customer’s knock had never felt so–

Expectant, like someone wanted to walk her out

The way he used to…

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Her heart raced as she pressed against the petals laced with her own blood.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The knock resounded in her chest.

She gazed out of the peephole.

A pair of broad shoulders.

Like his were.

Her eyes fell on the bouquet.

His–for her.

She seemed to hear his laugh from beyond the door.

His chuckle–

Low.

Deep.

One that she wanted so much to hear.

The smell of white roses teased her nostrils.

The games they played.

How he gave her a white rose every time she won one of their little races.

Every time she cried.

She peeped again.

White roses, catching the sunlight.

Surreal.

Beautiful.

Their scent….and then his hand. Warm.

His.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

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Moira cracked the door open further.

The figure brushed past the doorframe, hands lingering on hers—

For a moment.

His fingers used to cover hers–

Like this.

Soft.

Gentle.

Warm.

Her pulse quickened—she remembered.

Needed.

Then….she stepped back.

A hand—one she knew–stayed on a rose.

She could see a half-smile on his face–not clearly.

But she recalled.

How he used to take her to her favourite restaurant—

Even when he preferred Japanese.

His soft voice as he spoke to her mum—

Sick in bed.

Her last hours.

Soft.

Comforting.

But…

The car.

Headlights, too bright.

The crash.

The gravestones—too grey.

Too bleak.

White roses, laid on the grave bed.

Like the ones he had given her.

Her vision blurred.

She needed.

Wanted.

The scent of white roses filled the room.

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She held the white rose bouquet—an extra second.

Too long.

His hand still felt…warm.

The way…

She teared. Then straightened herself

She still had to meet that order.

But she still wanted to hold his roses.

Somehow.

A white rose bathed in the sunlight—

Warm.

Waiting.

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.