Wrapped The Bully Around My Fingers
And yet, I’m here.
The shadows grow longer around me, the dying light of the sun slipping away, leaving only the dark. The wind picks up, howling through the trees, and I can almost hear whispers, like voices I can’t understand. A part of me wants to scream, to demand an answer to the questions that suffocate me, but I can’t. My voice is swallowed by the silence, by the oppressive weight of the graveyard.
I close my eyes, my hand still on the cold stone, and the wind suddenly grows warmer—no, hotter. A presence fills the air, something unseen, something just beyond the corner of my eye.
Bab Populer