witchy
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The forest offers no neat explanation for disappearance, only the quiet truth that not every traveler is brave enough to say goodbye.
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A tarot reading beneath a quiet moon becomes less about prediction and more about listening to the truths already waiting inside.
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In a ruined chapel of ravens and ivy, one candle burns for the women history called wicked because they refused to disappear quietly.
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A worn deck becomes less about prophecy than permission—to rest, leave, grieve, become, and trust her own choices.
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A jar left beneath the full moon looks unchanged by morning, yet somehow carries enough light to make transformation feel possible.
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Maybe ghosts smoke too; something upstairs answers while the candle throws impossible shadows and the exhaled smoke never comes back out.
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At twilight, candlelight and cannabis turn an abandoned ivy-covered house into a place where smoke, grief, and old walls share the same air.
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At one in the morning, an old house keeps watch while the rest of the world sleeps and every dark window seems to stare back.
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At the edge of forgetting, an old house seems to know the name of the woman sitting beneath its porch with a candle against the dark.
Between Bruises & Blooms 