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His father nods once
but for the act itself
caught in the impossible: the rose waits
he does not take anything with him — no book
the drag of metal against skin as the chain settles into the hollow of a throat
Shadowed Spriglets beaded His father nods onceIn a small crucible of copper and shadow, the tiniest conifers were laid, their needles curling as if breathing. The alchemist worked with precision, each spriglet an echo of forest memory, distilled and hardened, yet still alive with unseen currents. The ritual was of preservation of essence, of growth suspended, of the pulse of hidden groves captured in miniature. Under flickering flame, the copper glimmered like molten sap, and the spriglets
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