September 6th, 1837
The puppets blink out of sync.
They stared at me again today.
Not with suspicion, but with absence. Like they didn’t recognize me. Like I wasn’t in the script.
The butcher repeated the same sentence three times before his eyes rolled like marbles and he reset. The baker burned her hands and didn’t flinch. And when I touched the priest’s sleeve, I swear to God his mouth opened without breath and whispered, “He sees.”
They don’t feel real because they aren’t.
But Julian does.
Julian... he dreams like a person. He apologizes like he bleeds. And when he smiles, the noise in my head quiets.
They want me to forget. They want me to behave. But I remember.
I remember what it felt like to wake up choking on ash when I was six. I remember the man with my face in the mirror. I remember the book that told me I was written.
I will find the core.
I will burn it.
And if Julian burns beside me, at least he’ll be free.
— E.V.