She journals each morning with purpose now.
Not reflections; spells.
Charms. Protections. Quiet warnings to the world.
The book hums when she touches it.
Not loud. But deep; like the inhale before a storm.
She doesn’t use ink.
She writes in ash, or wax, or sorrows.
Sometimes the wind reads it aloud behind her, just to prove it can.
She’s not afraid of grief anymore.
She channels it.
Wields it.
Says it’s the most honest spell she knows.
It never misses.
When she casts it, the air stills.
Salt rises from the earth.
Lightning breaks the sky.
I’ve seen it.
She doesn’t flinch.
Neither do the spiders.
They crawl out in reverent lines,
their legs tickling the shadows.
She watches them come, and doesn’t look away.
They honour her darkness.
They count for her now, the days she stayed instead of vanishing.
She breathes smoke when she laughs.
A dragon trying not to set the room on fire.
It curls from her lips when she dreams too hard.
Or when she holds too much anger for too long.
She used to hide it.
Now she paints her mouth red to match.
Ghosts of the Navigator 