It's Still Life

The 26th Glyph of 27 — Bellhollow – A return mistaken for grace

At the Intersection Named after an English King and a Saint

The Pull Back — Return to a Mad World

The brass key warms in her hand, its bow pressing deep into her palm like a vow; Brigid slips the blade into the lock (a turn, click — the bolt retracts with the sound of metal swallowing its tongue), and a slight smile lifts the corners of her lips as the door opens against a drift of abandoned post and fliers … and she breathes a long, soft, ‘Home.’ She has returned to the messy, resonant, living world, to her studio above the restaurant she shares with Pierre.

The room is stark: spartan, puritan in its emptiness; pale-pearl walls drained of sun, air so still even the saints would dare not disturb it — but this is Brigid; she opens the window, and the street breathes in; the flat exhales, revived and ordinary again.

Felreil flies to the windowsill — feathers stealing air, dusted with salt and soot — he says nothing, his own kind of grace, a conversation that’s more like a trick of light.

She stops, listens to the cooks begin their evening ritual: garlic and onions sizzling in smoky lardons, Pierre’s voice rising in a soft, low chant, the clang of pans a distant bell, and the scent climbs the stairs like a small, insistent itch.

In the kitchen, she turns on the fridge and picks up a vellum-smooth note on the worktop; it’s handwritten, calligraphic, careful and sure — (a sprig of Scottish Highland purple heather falls into her palm) — and she reads, “Even hollow bells ring beautifully — but they ring best when filled with air that remembers its song,” and Brigid smiles.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “trick “.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.