Chapter Text
The living breathe at midnight.
Their shadows hug the sky and Earth. Each breath is borrowed from the land to feed bodies that bleed of urgency.
At night, they hunt the poison that robs nourishment from the bodies buried beneath their feet.
(The world is a graveyard. To walk is to step on bone.)
Each step they take is for all who lived before them. They use their breath to steal the wind from the sails of those who wish them harm. With careful fingers, they hunt every drop of poison planted to drive out the dead.
Even the prettiest of things have thorns.
Rebellion is the language of the people. They speak protest in every flower they pluck from the ground. More will take their place when morning comes, but yards are torn and the dead are safe when the living breathe at midnight.
They burn bouquets under the moon. Each house is marked with the smallest of crosses to warn the dead of the potential for gardens. Not all who live invite the company of corpses, after all.
The children of the living breathe the smoke of their protest, born from the anger of the unwilling to change. The poison fills their lungs and causes no harm. They are not its target.
While the town sleeps and the stars wink their approval, they rid their streets of malice disguised as malcontent. Pretty words and pretty flowers – caution, others claimed; torture, they used.
Protect the dead, the children whisper with light lungs and clean air. Welcome the spirits. They tilt their heads to the sky.
The living breathe at midnight.