The Night the Ink Woke Up
Moon Ink Chronicles — Entry I of the Living Observations) There are nights when the world pretends to sleep, but something underneath it begins to breathe. It always starts in the quiet hour — the hour with no name, when the house softens, when the air loosens its shoulders and silence becomes a living thing. I wasn’t doing anything remarkable. No ritual. No invitation. Just a woman rinsing a cup in a dim kitchen, thinking of nothing at all. And then the shift happened. It’s subtle, the way truth announces itself. A curl of space. A tightening in the air, like the moment before a storm —only gentler, more curious. As if the world leans in and waits for you to notice. I always do. The light flickered against the countertop, but it wasn’t the bulb. It was the moment — thinning, opening, stretching like warm parchment. And then the ink moved. Not real ink. Not the kind that stains fingers or runs when water asks too many questions. This was the ink ben...