Dreaming Moon

In the spaces between shadows, she remembers waiting. Not with impatience—patience is for those who measure time in moments. She measures it in centuries, in the slow crawl of civilizations rising and falling like breath.

The mirrors are her windows. Thin membranes between worlds, each one a potential seam to be torn, each portal a potential wound through which something might slip. Most humans are too small, too fragmented. But sometimes—rarely—one arrives with just the right emptiness.

Greed carves precise geometries into a soul. Vincent’s greed was a perfect architecture, unknowing and absolute.

She does not hunger, not in any way flesh understands. She collects thresholds. Transitions. Moments of transformation where one state becomes another, where boundaries dissolve.

Some would call her a demon. She considers herself something older. A curator of passages.

And tonight, another bridge would be constructed.