Flicking through pages by lamplight, Sage started on the journal then. Night had just settled in when reading began.
Midnight pressed against the window when she settled into the guest room. The latch clicked shut behind her. On the small table beside the bed, a flame swayed inside a glass jar. Bright bulbs would have spoiled it. Firelight remembered things switches forgot. Smoke carried whispers of her mother's hands.
Fifty-three of those pages held sketches - some rough, others polished like glass. Though small, the book felt heavy in hand because someone's entire mind pressed against its seams. Each line curled with intent, never careless. Where words stopped, ink bloomed into shape - a lung, a root system, a face seen sideways. Numbers marched beside them, labeled but not cold. Her name appeared only once, tucked beneath a sketch of keys hanging on a nail.
What came through hit hard. It left little room for breath.
