The rain has not ceased for three days. It strikes the window pane with the rhythm of a frantic lover's heartbeat. I sit here by the candlelight, the ink staining my fingers like bruised fruit.
Do you feel it? The weight of the silence in this room? It presses against the skin, heavy and electric. I have left the door unlocked. Not for safety, but for the thrill of what might wander in from the dark.
We met in the space between breaths. A glance across the parlour that felt like a blade drawn slowly from a sheath. Sharp. Cold. Exquisite.
There are secrets buried under these floorboards, whispered confidences that would make the angels weep and the devils blush. Hover over these pages, and perhaps you will see the tremor in my hand as I wrote this.
Last night I dreamt of a banquet. The wine was too thick, the velvet too soft. I woke up gasping, clutching the sheets. This site is my confession. My digital altar.
Pry up the loose plank. Leave your mark in the dust beneath.