The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 17:48:14 -

The Pale Garden

The ink was wet. It dripped from the quill. It hit the parchment. It bloomed into a black flower. I watched it. I did not blink. The drop fell. Another fell. The paper soaked. The fibers turned gray. Then black. Then nothing. I am a ghost. Or I am the hand that holds the pen. The distinction is thin. It tears easily. I hold the ink. I am the ink. We are one. The room is cold. Stone walls....

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