13 of 27 – Stillrift: Peace Earned from Ruin
Let It Become Weather
It didn’t feel like peace when it came—just the absence of argument, like a room forgetting your name.
That night, Felreil appeared as a crow on the footboard of Brigid’s bed, dropping black stones onto her feet—each one etched with a word she’d swallowed: sorry, stay, why.
When she woke, she felt lighter—as if the crow had carried something away with it when it left—and out where Caledonian pines stitched shadows into the loam, silence came to her as clarity.
She left Connor’s ring on the cottage table without ceremony.
Brigid traces the indent on her finger where the gold had been: a ghost-band, Stillrift’s mark—the kind of peace that only breeds when ruin has burned every map.
And somewhere on the edges of his wings, Felreil scribbles: Some silences are vaults—and some are just tombs.
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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “breed”. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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