Mending
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They returned after the door had already changed meaning and loneliness was no longer enough reason to let them back in.
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After years of searching for home in other people’s arms, she realizes the place she kept rebuilding was herself.
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The forest seems to understand wounded things, sending home a kitten whose thorns are only fear wearing fur.
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A little feral creature arrives with claws, teeth, and every reason not to trust hands—then slowly discovers what softness can mean.
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She hated the place while she lived there, yet memory still aches for its mountains, smoke-filled summers, and the person she was inside them.
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She knows darkness well enough to walk it with her eyes closed, which may be exactly why she is finally learning how to leave.
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Choosing joy does not erase old pain; it simply refuses to let every bruise, promise, and goodbye own the rest of the story.
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The walls remember every version of her—the tears, the coffee, the restless nights, and the woman who kept figuring out what came next.
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The moon could not return what was lost, but beneath it she learned to stop asking the sky to rebuild a life only she could keep living.
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The forest becomes a burial ground for old apologies, dead promises, and the version of herself who kept begging people to stay.
Between Bruises & Blooms 