The air becomes threadbare.
Colors thin, almost translucent.
Sound frays and breaks the deafening silence.
October moves through the unraveling of time,
its limbs plucking strands of reality
like harp strings.
Each pluck summons a ghost
woven from memory’s loose ends.
They drift toward you like logs in a river,
their bodies patterned with forgotten moments,
their voices a loom‑song:
Nothing is lost forever.
Only hidden from plain sight.
Only waiting to be rewoven and made anew.
October offers you a single thread,
pale, trembling, alive,
and asks if you dare pull it
to see what world comes undone
or remade.
About the Creator
Syl De'Vil
Air Force veteran, ex‑cop, retired bruiser, mother of eleven and one tiny heir. Bone collector, garden witch, anime gremlin. skip tracer, I throw knives, rescue roadside relics, and write worlds stitched from insomnia.
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