Author: Kristoffer Vang | Date: 9 July
They say it’s just the humidity. The sleep paralysis. The seasonal storms.
But I haven’t dreamt in three years.
I lie down and hear the gallows creak. I wake with rope burns. Sometimes—mud in my lungs.
Children keep disappearing. They call it “Migration.” But when I follow the scent trails, I find tiny pairs of shoes turned to ash.
They say not to speak of the woman by the pyre. But she’s been whispering in my ears: “I didn’t mean to lose him. I tried to make him again.”