Chapter 9 · free to read
Eleven days of black, and then a place with hand-painted numbers and somebody's laundry drying over a rail. I had never wanted a bad port so much.
My hand. My slant. The little crooked V I've made since I was nine years old, in wet ink, in a book I had never once opened.
Same scar. Same eyebrow. Same eyes. And a beard, because nine days is exactly how long it takes to stop shaving.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.