Pressed pages
Sarah’s journal
She writes in a hand that looks like hers, in case the other faces forget which grief they started from. Locked pages cost 2 petals.
First life, age five
The flower
He was quiet. I was not, until I was.
A single flower. Not a bouquet, not a performance. A boy holding out the only pretty thing in reach because he had decided I should have it.
I never recovered. That is not a metaphor. Something in me closed around the stem and refused to open for anyone else.
Before the Company
The first life
I loved him from a distance because distance was the only door I had.
I died still holding that memory. I need this written down in a hand that looks like mine, in case the other faces ever forget which grief we started from.
After
The contract
A continuity law
Rose, and a little honey
2026
Cedar Hollow
Ongoing
Self-erasure
Limits
The only door
For every face
House rules