Chapter 9 · free to read
Month eight came up through the floorboards at half past one in the morning.
She had crossed the bridgeworks in the dark, in a storm, without being asked and without telling anyone. It had taken her nine minutes.
Every one of them had a folded page in its ribs. Eight months of drawings, going soft in brown water.
The graphite held. The ink did not. What survived was the part she had pressed hardest, which was, in every single drawing, him.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.