Long ago—before she wore a crown and ruled the Clockless Tower Kingdom—she was only a girl. A clever, pretty thing with daisies in her hair, who asked too many questions and read too many books. She lived by a river where the current braided itself around smooth stones. One afternoon she followed a Sphynx cat into the woods—furless, affronted, ears like unfurled sails. He led her to the stone skeleton of a chapel that rose from the mountain like a broken fang. The windows

They won’t believe me. Not truly. But I must write it down before the memory softens at the edges. Before it slips into the realm of dreams, where it does not belong. Her face must remain sharp. It was dusk—three nights past—when the wind dropped too suddenly, and the gulls began their tight, silent wheeling inland. I was just a mile from shore, hauling in an uninspired catch, when I noticed the sea was moving wrong. Not choppy. Not storming. Just... spiraling. As though some

I am only a bird. They think birds don’t understand the affairs of the heart. But I tell you, there are mornings so drenched in secrets which are not meant for the storybooks, that even the sky turns its face away. A goldfinch sees many things from his perch—things that would shrivel the innocence of daisies. That morning was different. The castle stood as it always had: indifferent, stately—its single spire cleaving the gauze of a pearl-colored sky. A bell in the tower rang

Close your eyes. You are sitting before a table—a real table, not the imagined one. There is fruit here: dewy strawberries still warm from the sun, grapes, a gleaming crisp apple. A slice of cake, rich with layers of raspberry cream, tilts delicately. A pale green pitcher anchors it all—classical in shape, curved like the neck of a swan, a vessel fit for myth. These are real. Tangible. You could reach out and touch them. But wait. You press a candle into a cupcake’s swirl of