Even The Dead Tell Stories
In the hush between your heartbeat and the knock. They breathe through splintered floorboards, seep from walls your father painted white — a color that cannot hold them back.
Their whispers gather in the corners, soft as moth wings, sharp as broken glass. They remember how the river took them, how the fire licked their bones clean, how the soil grew thick with secrets that blossom now in your dreams.
You think you’re alone when you lie in bed, but your name is spoken by a mouth of worms, your window rattles with a sigh you do not own. You asked for an empty house — instead, they come: the mother with no eyes, the lover with no tongue, the child who drags a shadow twice its size.
Even the dead tell stories — and yours is next, they say, pressing their cold lips to your ear, carving your future on the back of your teeth where words fester until they must be said.
So, listen. The door is open. The grave is warm. The story wants your ending. Give it one.
