The room is dim.
Not the dimness of night falling, but the dimness of a room that has been deliberately sealed—heavy curtains drawn tight across the glass wall, their thick fabric swallowing the moonlight before it can enter, before it can touch anything.
The only light comes from above: a polished golden glow, soft and distant, like something preserved in amber. Like something that hasn't changed in years.
I sit on my bed, leaning back.
A book rests in my hands. Old. The spine cracked in places, the pages yellowed at the edges, softened by time. But clean. Carefully kept.
Tale Of Nine Flowers.
My favorite.
Since I was little, this book was my escape. Mom used to read it to me before bed—her voice soft, her fingers tracing the illustrations, her warmth beside me. Every night. Without fail. Until I turned ten.
That was the year everything changed. The year I started hearing them.
The thoughts.
