This space holds the memory of a season that arrived wrong — late, loud, then silent. Panic curled like rot through the leaves, then stilled.

If you’ve found this hollow, you're welcome to stay. Sift through what the moss has claimed, or just sit with the quiet.

Some silences are simply silences. And sometimes, that’s enough.

I’m not a creator, not really. I rarely build worlds — I usually borrow from the ones already rotting.

Still, I worked up the nerve to post something.

I was nervous. A friend told me to stop overthinking and just… let the blight spread.

So here we are.