She journals each morning with a purpose now.
Not just reflections. Spells.
Charms and quiet warnings to the world.
The book has a weight when she touches it.
Not a hum. A density.
Like the air right before a summer storm.
She doesn’t use a pen.
She writes in ash or wax or the salt of her own skin.
Sometimes the wind reads it aloud behind her.
She isn’t afraid of the grief anymore.
She channels it.
Wields it.
Says it’s the most honest spell she knows.
It never misses the mark.
When she casts it, the kitchen goes still.
The spiders don’t even flinch.
They crawl out in quiet lines,
their legs stitching through the shadows.
She watches them come and doesn’t look away.
They honor her darkness.
They count the days she stayed instead of vanishing.
She breathes smoke when she laughs.
Like a candle she’s trying not to blow out.
It curls from her lips when she dreams too hard,
or when she holds a grudge for too long.
She used to hide the soot.
Now she paints her mouth red to match.
Some mornings I still check the horizon
to see what she’s left behind.
Ghosts of the Navigator 