The wind was a cruel thing on Lake Thorne in January. It cut through coats and skin and marrow, carrying whispers that might have been just air — or something older, more watchful.

Kiera pulled her wool cap lower over her ears and stepped onto the ice. A thin snow crust dusted its surface, swirling in tiny ghost-like eddies around her boots. Each step gave a faint groan. The sound was enough to qu...

If there were an eighth deadly sin, it would be Oblivion — the willful smothering of empathy, a cold refusal to see another’s suffering even when it bleeds before your eyes. It festers in hearts that grow numb, in souls that turn away not from ignorance, but from the heavy inconvenience of compassion. Oblivion is not simple ignorance; it is a deliberate choosing of blindness, a snuffing out of sha...

I. The Arrival

The first thing Amelia noticed when she stepped off the bus was how the wind seemed to whisper. Not whistle—whisper. As if the bare oaks lining the gravel lane had tiny mouths hidden under their bark, trading secrets she was never meant to hear.

She shivered and pulled her mother’s old green scarf tighter around her neck. It still smelled like lilacs and mothballs, like memories tha...

**Field Notes of Dr. Petunia Spratt, Ph.D (Possibly in Over Her Head)**

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Subject: The Island of Blibberton

Objective: To scientifically document the unique ecosystem, social structures, and potential existential threats posed by its inhabitants.

Funded by: The Highly Questionable Adventures Grant (who apparently didn’t read my last disastrous application closely).

**Day 1: Arrival (and Immedi...

I first heard the phrase when I was seven years old, sitting on the cracked porch of my grandmother’s old farmhouse, staring out at rows of withered fields that never seemed to yield more than sorrow. My cousin Lila, all knees and elbows and sunburned freckles, leaned close to whisper in my ear.

“Once the flowers bloom, we’ll be doomed.”

She said it like it was a secret. Or maybe a threat.

Eith...

It’s a battered old Chevy G20 with patchy blue paint like a cheap dye job grown out at the roots, revealing veins of rusty metal. The sliding door sticks; you gotta yank it with a grunt that echoes through the hollow cargo bay. The back’s gutted—no rows of bench seats, just a mattress on a platform of milk crates stuffed with spare parts, books, some canned soup, and a ratty deck of cards that’s m...