It's Still Life

Where the Air Remembers Your Name

The elves stitched the sunlight wrong that day—threads too gold, too tight — even the trolls’ granite knuckles itched, their slow blood humming something, something.

Elverhøj yawned open, just a slit: a shadow slid out, licking the air for old witch-scent.

She waited, blind eyes milky as the cave’s own breath, toes kneading moss.

Her hand lifted — not a ward, but a gesture of welcome, fingers pulling silence from the dusk like a splinter from flesh.

“Well, my lovely,” she lied, as the Elf King’s laughter unspooled from the rock, “I’ve brought a storm for you.”

And the trees held their branches just so, pretending not to eavesdrop.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “gesture”.   Imagery and prose ©Misky 2006-2025.