Cierra:
The storm broke by morning, but the world still felt drenched in it.
The sky hung low and pale, clouds stretched thin like bruises fading too slowly. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of ash and sage that clung to everything — my hair, my hands, the papers scattered across the desk in front of me.
I hadn’t really slept. Each time I closed my eyes, dread crept in. The letter resurfaced: my mother’s trembling handwriting, burned at the edges, pain and warning in every word. The truth is in the roots. Guilt twisted with determination every time I saw those words.
Now those roots were spread before me. Glass vials clouded with residue. Torn journal pages. Bits of spellwork older than I was. The table looked like an altar. Maybe it was. I’d been praying to something all night—j
