Hill Top Farm by John TudorThe Ghost of a Hearth
It is 3:15 am, and the house is settling. The wood groans under the weight of the night, a sound like old bones shifting in sleep. I am thinking about the things we leave behind when we decide we can no longer survive in a place. We pack the…
Blue Screen by Hairolnizam SamionThe Ghost Behind the Veil
It is 3:14 am. The silence in this room is heavy, the kind that presses against your eardrums until you start hearing the hum of your own blood. I am thinking about the things we hide behind. We build walls of fabric, of routine, of polite…
The Mycelium of Memory
When a tree falls in a forest, the mycelial network beneath the soil begins to redistribute nutrients, feeding the surrounding saplings with the stored energy of the ancestor. Nothing is truly lost; it is merely translated into a new form,…