For three generations, I have seen smiles, joy, and laughter that have stared deep into my soul. I have seen a family transition from black and white to vivid color. I have seen children mature and their parents age. I have seen many people and, in me, they see themselves.

For many years I have hung upon this wall. My time here has passed rather slowly. I have seen hair turn gray and wrinkles appear, and, with each generation, they look at me more but see themselves less.

Many holidays, celebrations, and losses have passed through the door of my home. Many of those who looked at me were joyous, while others were saddened or angered. Some stared into my soul for hours, while others stared for mere seconds. 

I am not fancy. I am not vain. I simply hang there and help people see themselves. I am the one to whom they look for advice on what they’re wearing. I am the refuge for nerves. It is my purpose to be a glowing ray, to uplift, to reflect back smiles. However, my purpose seems to have been forgotten.

There has been a metamorphosis - slow, long, enduring. Those who stare at me, who stare at themselves, no longer stare for the same purpose. They seek me out not to see themselves, but to see others; not to talk to me, but to talk about themselves.They no longer smile as much. They scream. They cry. They are critical. They look defeated.

For many years, I have wished to be taken off this wall for I cannot bear to hang here and see them in this way. What has changed, I ponder? Is it me, is it them? They tell me that I am dangerous, so I believe it is time for me to go. Their hatred of themselves is reflected onto me. 

This must change, but will it? Will we go back to the long conversations that we had with one another, the late-night staring contests, or the reflections of who it is that we want to be? We must go back. We must remember to smile when we see our reflection.

Many call me a looking glass, but I did not see this coming. Others say they see spirits when they look at me, but mine is the one that is broken. They look at me to see their identity, but I am the one in a crisis. It is not okay, I am not okay. It is my hope that we may return to the past, so that those who look at me can see their beauty.

Once upon a time, there once was a leprechaun named Carttiaré who worked at Dollar General. His favorite and most prized item was his famous Lucky Charms. He was best friends with a guy named Gucchi de Bouchie who was rich and well-known, and is presented as a professional, charismatic Irish Wolfhound. Little do people know Gucchie de Bouchie was a scheming, conniving, and deceiving person, but he is so good at hiding those facts that not even his best friend, Carttiaré, could see these characteristics. Gucci de Bouchie had his own brand of clothing, but he is starting to get bored of just selling clothing; he craves more; he didn’t know what else he could make and sell. He then remembers Carttiaré telling him his deepest darkest secret that he has never told anyone before. His secret was that he was behind creating Lucky Charms which was his one thing that he always enjoyed making. Carttiaré’s Lucky Charms were so famous that he had to keep his identity a secret, since he doesn’t seek out attention so no one knew who created Lucky Charms. One day, Carttiaré was minding  his business when suddenly he got a notification on his phone with the headline, “Breaking News! Gucchi de Bouchie was secretly the creator of Lucky Charms”. Somewhat shocked, he opened his notification and started to read about this breaking news: Gucci de Bouchie stated that he was the creator of Lucky Charms at 4:45P.M. on TikTok. He proceeded to provide evidence proving that he was in fact the “Unknown Creator of Lucky Charms”. The evidence provided was of legal documents that were signed buy professionals showing that he was the true creator. After reading this snippet of the article, Carttiaré  immediately called Gucci de Bouchie but he did not answer because of the press bombarding him with questions. Carttiaré starts to ground himself and thinks about this situation logically. He knows that even if he has “legal documents” they aren’t the true documents since he keeps those locked away inside of a vault. As well as Gucci can not get any of his profits for he does not know any of the money management either. As Carttiaré is realizing these aspects and more he can clearly see that Gucci did not know anything about his company besides that fact that he was the owner. He would soon run out of information sooner than later, but then the truth would come out. The panic starts to rush back to him and he starts pacing around thinking that the information about him being the “Unknown Creator of Lucky Charms” would be all over the news before the day is out. The last time that happened (it has happened once in the past before) he luckily came up with an excuse of that he was just a big fan, but since people are already suspecting him he most likely wouldn't be able to get out of thai one. Meanwhile, Gucci is having the best time of his life with the press almost breaking down his huge door at one of the many mansions he owns. He can’t wipe the smirk off of his face while looking at his profits and followers start to rise, but this is still not enough to satisfy him. He then starts to head outside to the press that are gathered and surrounding his property. Loving all of the attention, he starts to answer questions that the public gives him, but as the questions start to get a little more intellectual his replies start to get less detailed as he starts to sweat. Suddenly, his words get mixed up and contradicts what the true creator said before and Gucci then cracks under the pressure. The press then starts to ask triple the amount of questions and that’s when Gucci knew it was time to throw in the towel. Carttiaré suddenly gets another notification less than two hours later, “Breaking News! Gucci de Bouchie is an imposter”. Relief started to come in waves since the truth came out, but worried about what might happen to him even though he pulled this messed up stunt. As Carttiaré is reading the article he gets a call from Gucci. As he picks up the call Gucci is on the other line apologizing for what he has done and that he should have never used his biggest secret for his own benefits. Carttiaré said that he forgives Gucci and said that we all make mistakes and he was just extremely understanding of the situation.After they get off the phone, Carttiaré decides to eat some Lucky Charms since the whole day was basically a train wreck so a little treat couldn’t hurt. As he makes the bowl he starts to think about all that has happened and he starts to chuckle at the fact he was nervous that he was going to be found out as the creator. He starts to pour the milk and when he takes a bite all of his worries just melt away. Carttiaré starts to realize that even if he were to be exposed today or tomorrow why would that matter? He would still have his Lucky Charms and that’s all that matters. 

Philos had once been a beacon of humanity’s hope, a new home after Earth’s ruin, a planet sustained by artificial cores and advanced technology. Cities floated atop energy grids, sunlight filtered through synthetic skies, and every life was measured, monitored, optimized.

And yet, the planet was dying. Its forests, though engineered to survive, were wilting. Rivers ran thin, diverted through artificial channels. The air carried a metallic tang, heavy with the hum of failing machinery. Everything that seemed perfect on the surface was fragile, dependent entirely on a machine that could not think or feel.

At the Astra Knight Academy, two prefects stood on opposing sides of the training grounds.

Liora, leader of the Moonchasers class, faced Xavier, a part of the Starhunters. Their duels were precise, controlled, fierce. Friendly rivalry masked the respect and bond they shared two guiding lights in a world run by machines.

“You’ve improved,” Xavier said, lowering his practice saber. His silver eyes reflected the synthetic sky above.

Liora smirked. “Only because I have a worthy rival.”

The Academy’s walls hummed with energy, powered by Philo's failing core. Technology had created this perfect, artificial environment'’ a place where talent could flourish, but where the cost of failure was always invisible, always looming.

They didn’t yet know the cruel irony of fate. Liora was destined to be Xavier’s Grandis Knight, sworn to protect him once he became prince. But the planet’s survival demanded sacrifices they could not yet see.

Years passed, and the truth revealed itself. The royal family had marked Liora as the perfect sacrifice, her immortal body linked to Philo's artificial core. Every time the core faltered, her essence would sustain it, ensuring the planet survived another day. Yet each pulse drained more than her energy,it made the artificial climate systems, sending storms out of balance, wilting crops, and removing rivers.

Xavier’s heart broke when he discovered it. He, the future king, had been groomed to accept her service as protector but now the roles had shifted. He became the protector, willing to risk his royal future and the throne itself to save her.

“The system is failing,” he said, his voice low as they walked the glowing corridors of the palace. “And it wants you. To keep this world alive, it will consume you and everything else will suffer.”

“I can’t just let it happen.” Liora whispered, fear threading her words. “They built me to die for them.”

“You won't." Xavier said, gripping her hand. “I will ruin my crown. I will backtrack through time. I will break this cycle. You are not a tool for their machines. You are my guiding light. And maybe, if we survive, we can finally give this planet a chance to breathe on its own.”

The palace’s lights flickered, energy grids sparking with instability. Xavier activated the Backtrack sequence, a forbidden method to travel through space-time.

“You have to trust me,” he said. “We have one chance to escape this timeline and change your fate.”

Liora nodded, the weight of centuries of planned sacrifice heavy on her shoulders. Together, they stepped into the chamber as light warped around them, reality bending, Philos’ dying city dissolving into streams of energy.

Time fractured. The world of their birth, the Academy, the palace all blurred and stretched.

When the glow faded, they were elsewhere. Not yet safe, not yet home. But free from the immediate grasp of the artificial core. Liora looked at Xavier, awe and fear mingled in her eyes.

“Did we succeed?” she asked.

He shook his head slowly. “We’ve changed the course but the struggle isn’t over. Technology may save this planet or destroy it again. But now, it will serve life, not consume it. We have a chance to let Philos heal and perhaps learn from Earth’s mistakes.”

For the first time, Xavier allowed himself a breath of hope. Not a victory, not a salvation, just the fragile promise that perhaps this time, they could survive without sacrificing humanity or the planet or each other.

Liora’s hand found his. In her eyes, he saw not fear, but purpose. She was meant to protect him, but now he protected her. They had reversed the knightly roles, but the bond remained. She was his guiding starlight, and he was her shield against a world corrupted by its own technology.

The planet still shimmered in the distance, dying yet beautiful. Its forests could regrow, its rivers could flow evenly, and its air might finally clear if humanity learned to wield technology with wisdom and conscience. The lesson of Philos remained: no machine, no crown, no artificial perfection could replace choice, morality, or the human heart.

Xavier and Liora stepped forward into an uncertain future together, each light guiding the other, ready to defy the fate written by technological arrogance, and ready to give Philos a real chance to survive. 

In that purple room stitched of dreams

Me and Bella stood in those velvet walls of endless seams

Glowing potions of green, yellow, and shades of blue

They stood Like pieces of a puzzle in colorful hues

A wonder of a world consumed by my mind

The walls as carpeted as clouds

The rugs breathed hushly beneath our feet

Shelves whispered secrets in glassy rows

Every color too bright, too sickly sweet

A wooden door awaited, patient and thin.

I ran, unlocked in seconds, heart in my hand

Down a descending hallway that stretched like a question

Then a cage, cold hearted bars, a silver gleam held Timothee Chalamet

A shining ring of blonde behind him revealed another

A replacement brother

The poor Chalamet twins ached at my breaking heart

I released them from their bars of steel and swept them out

Oh if only I knew the doom I would do

I ran alongside the two men, not realizing the distress I was in

Oh to be young and naive, a blast over my head is all i could be

A wicked witch with a bat for a hat

Awake from my dream with a start

A trouble on my aching heart

Oh how my friends never knew

That purple room of hues

In the dimless morning of New York City there was a teenage girl, Tina Johnson 15 years old, she lived in apartment 208. Her parents on the other hand were on a business trip to Miami. Tina was FaceTiming her parents “How was the trip? Are you guys having a good time? She wished she was there! It gets pretty annoying when her Mom says “It's a work trip honey no need to worry, it's not like we're going to have all of the fun without you! Then her Dad chimed in “she also bought you some favorite books that you love to read, did you also finish your chemistry homework? you know you don't want to fail that subject, right? She  ignored his typical “Dad” talk, instead she ended the call, and texted her parents saying “I love you”, and went to change into her pjs. Suddenly she heard a knock on the door, she slowly walked to the door, and answered it, it was the pizza guy “I have pepperoni meat pizza with pineapples” she looked at the pizza guys scrawny dark brown hair, blue eyes, she thought he looked tired from his job, As Tina said “I didn't order any pizza what are you talking about” the pizza guy looked sternly at her “Well you did”. She glared at him sternly, then threw cash right in his face, took the pizza and slammed the door. She opened up the lid of the pizza box and saw that the pizza had a strange look to it. Illuminated from the darkness, she shrugged and took a bite of this strange looking pizza, chewing on it, she said “hideous but yum” she finished the slice, closed the lid and went to bed. Tina settled into her little bed and she heard scratching noises, she ignored it, as the scratching noise continued she fell asleep. 

The sauce chapter 2

Her parents came in all happy and excited wanting to see her. Mrs. Johnson said “Tina, oh Tina we got you some books and presents!” Silence… Mrs.Johnson looked confused “This is not her, she's never silent" she said to her hubby as she went to check Tina's room she gasped in horror, and then screamed. “MY POOR BABY!” Mrs. Johnson rushed into Tina's bedroom, she saw her lying on the floor and held her in her arms. 

To be Continued…

Every school was built on stories. Folklore passed down from generation to generation. No way to know what’s actually true, and what got spread caused the truth to cease to exist. That was, until we found the camera. 

The day started off normal enough. A cool breeze flowing through the air, kids laughing and screaming, and of course, Isla and I received detention for being late again. “This is too common of an occurrence. I’m sorry but I am going to have to give you guys detention” is what Mrs. Sawyer said as we walked in 2 minutes after the bell. That brings us to now, standing in front of the supply closet that looks like it hasn't been cleaned in years. “Where do we even begin, Lucy?” Isla questions as we stare in utter disbelief. 

30 minutes in, we completely cleaned one corner of the room. Tennis rackets, fundraiser packets, forgotten basketballs, nothing too special. We move on to the next corner of the room, this one is not as messy, but still in need of reorganizing. “Isla, come help me lift this real quick” I express with a sigh, already bending down to lift the cabinet that had fallen over. Dust falls off as we lift, causing us to cough like crazy. Underneath the cabinet was a small box. “Should we open it?” She whispers from next to me. Before I could answer the box was swept up by a pair of tan hands, her polished fingernails delicately roaming over it. 

Before I could even think about snatching it back, Isla had lifted the lid off the box. Laying inside was a small, pink camera. Stickers covered spots on the front, white coming over the once bright colors. She picked the camera up and turned it over in her hands. “Should we take a photo?” she jokes, pressing the on button. To our surprise, the camera powered up quickly. “Go to the photos” I whisper from beside her, nervous about what we will find. She presses the button, a photo of a young girl with blonde hair pops up. “She looks familiar,” Isla declared, pulling out her phone and putting her lockscreen side by side “Lucy, she looks just like you”. 

I am a senior that’s been here four years, I've experienced so much joy, anger and tears.

It feels like yesterday that I first arrived, but since then I've grown and thrived.

But now I’m nearing the end of this school, and part of me feels like a fool.

To this school I hold so tight, leaving it behind doesn't seem right.

This school where I've made all my friends, now it's time to come to its end.

But it's not a challenge I can't face, because these memories will never erase. 

I never gave leaving this school much thought, but with it I'll carry all I was taught. 

It makes me sad is what they say, but in the end I’ll be okay.

Yes it’s sad this is true, But nothing wrong with something new.

So grab your cap and your gown, And walk the aisle without a frown.

Because you’ve made it this far, So go and shoot for the stars.

Peace was a brittle thing. It could be poked and prodded, with caution, of course, but much more than that, if any more force were applied to it, it would snap. Forced peace is always fractured. Eventually. The only thing keeping the current peace was a flimsy, if age-old, tradition, the reason for which had now long been lost to time. Everyone just knew it had to have been started for a reason, and it was started by the Anchored, no less; and thus, the tradition has been widely accepted. It was only a matter of time before someone inevitably pushed the limits of the treaty until it was broken. War was guaranteed, anticipated even, and even the land seemed to groan at the thought of such violence. Already so much has been lost, and more and more would only be taken. The only unknown was when.

Peace never lasts. Not when people are too proud to remember why it ever existed at all.

The thundering of my heart within my chest makes thoughts of being part of a future like that cause my stomach to toil with anxiety. I lean against the railing of the balcony overlooking the lush gardens, fingers trembling as I force myself to breathe normally. Time passes slowly as I stare up at the leaves of a tall tree and try to focus on the way each leaf seems to reach out to touch my face before careening back and swaying in the gentle wind. The motions, ever calming, made my body relax, releasing even just a fraction of the tension inside of me. I doubt it would ever truly leave, but the momentary distraction was welcome. I glance down at my hands, seeing my knuckles white from being clenched around the railing, before I quickly release them and watch them return to normal.

I shouldn't panic so severely over something I can't change, I know that, but that doesn't stop the way my mind seems to shut down when reminded of the power I wield, of the way I know my very existence causes the other members of the courts to tremble. Some days, I wish I were born without all of this power. Other days, I wish I didn’t exist at all.

I turn around, walking through each corridor to my room as I try to ignore how my life alone is reason enough that there was unrest, a reason for the whispers and rumors surrounding my family from the other members of nobility, even from within my own Dominion. The earthen scent of dirt wafts through the air, and I try desperately to cling to the notion that I'd never have to catch the scent of blood as strong as this. My jaw clenches as I reach up to the locket at my chest in a search for strength to continue walking.

Logically, war didn’t have to happen now. Not yet. Maybe there was still time — just enough to hold everything together with silken threads and careful diplomacy. Just enough to keep my hands from becoming stained. I'm willing to wait, to tough out the cruel words if only to prevent any more blood from spilling. I have to find strength in that, and my mind clears just enough that I'm able to notice the woman behind me, her pace swift enough to catch up to mine. A shadow paces over me from an overhang, and I glance at the woman, a messenger, briefly through the corner of my eye as I slow down to a stop and turn to her. She bows before me, her thick cloak pooling around her ankles. She must be so overheated in such attire and I quickly pull her by the shoulder to stand in the shade. She doesn't pull back her hood but I can see her red, blotchy skin from what little of her face is visible.

"I bear news — and a message from the Noxari court. It's sealed, and addressed to you and your father," The girl falls to her knees, trembling like a struggling insect in harsh winds, "They're coming. The Vireon and his heir."

A smile graces my lips, too many teeth, too happy to hear of this. And still, I know showing my own fear would only make it worse. I know I have to be welcoming, will have to make sure such guests don't sense the distrust. Or, if they did, know it wasn't from me. Still, fear races through my blood. Just the thought of being in the same room as either of them turns my insides to mush.

"Have you already told my father?" The voice leaving my lips is smooth, deceivingly so and I hope it eases the girl's senses if just a little bit. Where my birth was a reason for unrest, the presence of the heir alone was enough to make even the toughest of men cower in fear. The only saving grace was the fact that the Vireon didn't have such a reputation and generally seemed more pleasant, if a recluse at times. The girl finally manages to catch her voice as she stares up at me desperately, her hood falling back to reveal golden eyes wide with fear.

"Yes, he's preparing the west wing for them." Her legs tremble before she tries to sit up, and I quickly hold out a hand to help her up. She quickly pulls the hood over her head, taking a step away from me.

"Good. Why don't you go and get a drink? I'll go make sure the preparations in the west wing are overseen."

The girl nods and quickly slips away, leaving me alone with my thoughts. A breath finally leaves my lips as she finally leaves and I quickly turn to head to the west wing. Warmth spreads through me as I walk through each of the exposed corridors, glad for the Sun's dappled light and heat. I just had to make sure everything was in order. No other expectations, and looking back, it was wrong of me to be so critical of the Virethane's reputation when I always complain about the one I've been given.

A voice in my head screams that mine was given, his was earned. I elect to ignore the voice. He could be pleasant company for all I know. He could really like taking walks in nature, could enjoy reading, or perhaps even enjoy something simple like art when he wasn't busy training.

Still, my heart beats so loudly, I can hear it in my ears as I take each brisk step forward. I round the last corner toward the west wing, where the banners of my house have already been replaced with black and purple silks and emblems—welcoming, impersonal, a sign of civility without it looking like a sign that we could be walked all over. The rooms have been freshly cleaned and I can already see the servants bringing out silk bedding and dark shades for the windows.

In just a few hours, I will have to stand beside my father. I will have to meet their eyes with a smile. I will have to pretend the war that we all know is inevitable is just a bad dream we all happen to share. I will have to welcome them with open arms and ensure that the war won't be blamed on us, or on me.

Somehow, I know that the moment blame will be thrown, it will always end up on me. But I refuse to let the peace we could potentially cultivate be disregarded because I'm afraid to take risks.

I will risk everything it takes and take the brunt of every joke, every harsh word, and every blame if it saves the blood of everyone across the land.

I stare up at each emblem in front of me, then turn away, ignoring the chasm in my chest that seems to swell with dread. The air feels heavier now, like the world itself is holding its breath. I do the same.

Soon, the Vireon and his heir will cross our threshold, and with them, the weight of everything I’ve tried to hold together will finally be tested. Let them look me in the eyes and declare whether or not a war needs to happen now.

The Noxari are coming. Of all the courts, it had to be them—the ones whose heir was rumored to be bred for war.

Let them see just to what lengths I'll go to keep him from starting one.

Let them see what war has already taken from me.

Bowie never believed in wishing stars. If it were that easy, and if it were true, the world wouldn’t be as unfair as it is and he’d be living his ideal life. He’d be in college getting an actual education. Making friends. Trying to sneak into bars and failing but still getting a laugh out of it. All the things people his age did. Instead, he’s working three jobs and living alone in a worn down hut. Call him pessimistic, but it wasn’t that easy and stars were just giant balls of gas in the air.

Which is why he wasn’t sure why he did what he did. Maybe it was because he had just gotten home late, exhausted, feeling more hopeless than usual, and needing something to confide in. Or maybe it was because tonight just felt different. The air was charged with an odd tension. The silence was unusually louder, as if expectant for something to fill it. When he stepped out onto the makeshift porch, the world held its breath. The night’s white eye was wide awake and full, staring down at him from amongst the many twinkling stars. Bowie shut his eyes, not sure what it was that he was searching for, and whispered words into his cupped palms.

Light years away, a star fell, this inhuman being. At first it was a slow descent, as if he were in water, space, an endless vacuum full of celestial bodies and phenomena. Then, as he got closer to Earth, his vessel began to burn against the force of gravity. His skin peeled and his body was on fire, but he was calm. He stared upwards as his home got further and further away. And he crashed into the ground, rough, loud, jarring. It was anything but a smooth landing. So unlike anything he had ever experienced before. 

The soundwaves hit the air late and Bowie jolted from his pose on the porch, nearly tripping over the small step.Their eyes met instantly. Bowie noticed his sharp, pale silver eyes and porcelain face that Bowie himself would kill for. His own was heavily scarred from an incident in his childhood. Then there were the burns covering the rest of his body. Without wasting any more time questioning the possibility of it all, Bowie ripped off his jacket and wrapped it around the star’s bare body. This guy needed help, that much was clear. Any questions he had right now could be answered later.

The leather hat sits in my hands. The grainy fabric felt rough underneath my fingertips. The final touch needed to complete the outfit. A red skirt, falling just above my knees and calves, sits on my hips. I carefully place the hat on my head, wary of messing up my delicately done hair. A cool breeze flows through the open window, the smell of ocean water wafting in. I breathe it in, bending down to tie the lace of my boot. As I stand, it feels as if the house starts to shake. Not dramatic enough to be an earthquake; not violent, just a tremble. Panic swells in my chest as I open the door of the bedroom. Expecting to see the hallway I was instead met with… a wooden deck? The floors that were once polished wood were replaced with weathered planks, marked with various spills and stains.

“Top o' the mornin' to ye Cap’n!” announced a voice from my left. I whipped around, tumbling over my own foot. “Who are you? Where am I?” I questioned the broad man. “What Cap’n? Are you feeling alright?” Brushing past him as he speaks, I stare over the railing of the deck. The wind blows, whispering faint sounds of my name. My pulse quickens. What am I doing here? I grab ahold of the railing, trying to steady myself and my mind. “Ye alright, Cap? Lookin’ a little pale there.” the man questions from behind me. “Something’s not right,” I pause, letting the wind flow in my hair, “I don't belong here”. With that, I rush back to the room I previously came out of. 

There, a small golden-lined mirror rests against the wall. I peer into it, expecting to see my face, but I see someone completely different. A scar has come over my face, starting just above my eyebrow, making its way down a few centimeters  below my eye. I trace the rigid part of the scar, having no recollection of ever getting it. My shirt, once white, was now a light brown color, as if it was in need of a wash. The skirt, once a cotton material, has been traded for a linen one of the same design. My hair has become raggedy. Soft curls that were once framing my face were gone, some were braided, others were a mop of hair. A stranger stared  longingly at me, though that stranger was actually me. 

 I turn away, walking back to the area I stood before. Turning to face the man, “What is my name?”. He stares back at me like I’ve gone mad, “Well, you’re Augusta Blackheart. One of the most famous pirates that has ever sailed the seven seas”, he states as if its’s the most obvious thing in the world. We stand in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that's almost deafening. “That is not my name,” I whisper, breaking the silence, “and I have never even left the country, let alone sailed the seven seas!”. The man’s expression faltered, “Maybe you should go lie down." My gaze is taken off the man, my head tilts down slightly. “Yeah, maybe I should”. 

I make my way back to the room, the crooked sign saying Captain’s Quarters above it. In the reflection, my fingers brush against the hat, then against the tangled hair, then over rosy cheeks, and finally back over the scar. I reach for the worn brush that sits on the table beside the glass. I slowly lift the hat off my head, my fingers delicately meeting the brim. The moment my head and the hat lose contact, everything stops. 

The soft movement of the ship. 

The hustle and bustle of the crew working.

The crashing of the waves. 

The soft whispers of my name — my real name — in the wind. 

All of it was gone. 

I lay the hat down, moving it from blocking my face in the mirror. The person staring back is me this time. It’s actually me. Not Augusta Blackheart. I pick the hat back up, turning it in my hands to inspect it. Inside, covered by a little flap, are the words ‘Property of A.B’. As I read, I could’ve sworn I heard the faint sound of my name once more. Maybe next time… a head scarf will do.