Author: Johannes Berg | Date: 2 December
They call her The Maiden. But the birds call her Mother.
I followed a trail of black feathers to the pond behind the archive. In the reflection: a woman wailing, cradling smoke.
No one else saw it. When I stepped closer, the pond turned solid. A mirror. It showed me aged. Alone. Ash pouring from my eyes.
She is not just here. She made here. We are inside something grieving.