The storm

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The storm’s remnants cling to the air like ash, the sky a patchwork of bruised purples and charred blacks. Eden’s breathing is uneven, his scars now jagged fissures leaking a viscous, iridescent light. The melody inside him isn’t just humming anymore—it’s *seeping*, staining his skin like ink. He stares at his hands, trembling. “It’s changing me,” he whispers. “I can feel it… *writing*.”

The ground beneath us isn’t ground at all. It’s a mosaic of shattered mirrors, each shard reflecting a different shard of *us*: Eden crowned in thorns, me devoured by the storm, the Weaver stitching our corpses into a tapestry. The reflections don’t just watch—they *mimic*, their movements lagging half a breath behind ours.

“Don’t look,” I say, but Eden’s already fixated on a reflection of himself with hollow eyes and a smile stitched shut.

“Too late,” he mutters.