Far From The Madding Crowd

The corridor is warm, but no human warm. It smells of polished vinyl and eucalyptus. Not bleach. They’ve moved on from bleach. Now it’s all essential oils and white noise machines, soft LEDs and trauma informed upholstery. Everything curves slightly. No sharp edges. The woman in blue scrubs introduces herself – Sasha, or Sara. I

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The Turret Night has pressed itself flat against the windows of the flat, yet inside the turret there is no night — only a muted glow, the kind that belongs to the hours when sound grows its own shape. Nell sits on the warped boards, shawl wrapped close, her ear turned toward the wall. The

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Beneath the floorboards, the air was never dry. You could smell it if you leaned close enough to the cracks—sweet and root-heavy, like something growing in the dark. My father had told me once that the Arsenal buildings were raised on piled earth, and beneath that, the river reclaimed itself in slow floods. But this

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