??.? "This a bad time to say I got the touch?"
"Better yet, I think ya have the power. Or however that lyric goes."
IN WHICH a girl hums through life in quiet rhythms, but for every thousand lives she's lived, each time, the tempo stumbles. Each ti...
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𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑰𝑿𝑻𝑬𝑬𝑵 "Did you just throw the gun?" ˚ ✦ . ˚ . . ✦ . ˚ * . ★ ˚
𝐔 𝐍 𝐈 𝐕 𝐄 𝐑 𝐒 𝐄 : 𝐍 𝐎 𝐍 𝐄
I've been here before.
She could've sworn she...
But that's impossible. This is the first time...
Hm.
There is no edge to this place.
Rhea floats untethered inside the deep hum of everything she once was and everything she might have been, if the world had not bitten so hard at her throat.
Only an endless cradle of velvet hush, where the last breath she once owned has already abandoned her lips.
The hush where a new version of herself floated alone, having fallen from the thread, farther and farther from that phenomena of deja vu from repeated mistakes and the same path weaving the lives of Rhea as one, now drifting in this weird never-ending silence of the unknown.
For a mistake is what brought her here, this infant realm of potential of being. Both a mistake of her own... and ofaccidents of others.
But mistakes could lead to the potentially the best or worst opportunities, as they opened doors for one to make a decision that maybe wasn't previously obvious or one they struggled to see.
Rhea merely drifted as if a thought without shape, a pulse without flesh, a flicker of the self she once stitched together from grief and tenderness and iron will. Here, at the mouth of the abyss, she fell from the unspooled thread from the web of fate and abrupt ends, falling further and further from the known as if grasping at the light of a spaceship while endlessly floating away with no way to stop it.
And all around her, the dark hums–low and endless, older than any heartbeat she ever carried in any life. It cradles her bruised soul in its fathomless palm. Within this blackness, her past drips through her like candlewax, fragments blinking like in the dark, a distant echo in a space that wasn't supposed to hold sound.
Toward the thread, it beckoned her like a soft light of comfort, quiet and golden where one could pretend forever was possible.
Icarus and Sorren sleeping curled against her ribs, too small to dream of tragedy.
Her mother's lullabies, humming nonsense words into the soft place behind her ear.
Rowan's stubborn laughter, the defiant curl of his fists even as the world tried to swallow him whole.
Jazz's laughter—bright, reckless, the sound of a sunrise she thought she would never deserve.
Small faces pressed to her hip, calling her name like a promise.
