Steady hands, stormy thoughts, and quiet words. I write between the wounds and the wonder, stitching letters with quiet ache. Ink is where my truth softens into fiction, where every line carries what I never said. Scribbling what-ifs and almosts.
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Stories by frances
Shadows of What Could Have Been
Celestial Anestia Howkingson was born beneath the relentless glare of the spotlight, into a world where fame...