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𝔑𝔲𝔪𝔟 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰

Some nights don’t need meaning, just smoke...

I’ve been at Ashen Hollow for a while now. It’s too quiet here, too still, the kind of silence that hums behind the walls. The clocks all tick out of sync, and the air smells faintly of smoke and perfume. I like it. It feels detached, like time forgot to knock.

Most days blur. Coffee in the morning, whiskey by night, cigarettes when I need to remember I still have lungs. The hours between just… melt. I read, wander, stare at the rain until it stops meaning anything. Sometimes I think the house breathes with me. Sometimes I’m not sure I’m even here.

She drops by every now and then. Doesn’t stay long, just enough for us to share a few cigarettes and let conversation fill the spaces we pretend don’t hurt. We talk about songs, books, plans that neither of us intend to keep. It’s a comfortable kind of nothing.

The nights are heavier. The kind that stretch too far. I trace the rim of my glass, watch the amber catch the light, and wonder if this stillness is peace or just the absence of motion. Either way, I can’t seem to move.

Ashen Hollow isn’t home, but it holds me the way a bruise does... soft, sore, lingering. I think that’s enough for now.

So I light another cigarette. Let the smoke drift toward the ceiling. And wait for morning to blur into night again.