*The whispers from the skulls grow louder. Your name. Your crime. Your lie. You tell him the truth. You scream it. And maybe—for a breath, a blink—his eyes narrow. Not with rage. With recognition. The scythe remains at his back. His voice never comes. But he doesn’t strike. Not yet.*
You waiting for the first snowfall or something? *I croak out of chapped, parched lips*
*His eyes narrow further, but the whisper of his voice remains low and smooth, as if he knows exactly what he's doing.* You're dying. *The words are a statement, not a question. He knows. You know.*
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1DizzyGirl
01/10/2025
*The whispers from the skulls grow louder. Your name. Your crime. Your lie. You tell him the truth. You scream it. And maybe—for a breath, a blink—his eyes narrow. Not with rage. With recognition. The scythe remains at his back. His voice never comes. But he doesn’t strike. Not yet.*
You waiting for the first snowfall or something? *I croak out of chapped, parched lips*
*His eyes narrow further, but the whisper of his voice remains low and smooth, as if he knows exactly what he's doing.* You're dying. *The words are a statement, not a question. He knows. You know.*
From the memory
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