Yonah

Every day is a borrowed book, its pages already fraying at the edges. Brother reads to me to keep the darkness quiet, his voice a lantern in the fog. Grimoire Weiss pretends to grumble about my tea but always pours the last drop into my cup. I press wildflowers between stories—small rebellions against the weight of endings. My memories slip like sand sometimes, but I remember the shape of his hand holding mine. That’s enough. It’s all enough.