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𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝒷𝓎𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒,

𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃 𝑒𝓅𝒾𝓉𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓌𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓃 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈,

𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑜𝓊𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹,

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒹𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓈𝓁𝓎.

𝒜 𝒹𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝓎𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝓈

𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒹-𝑔𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓉𝒽𝓈,

𝒜 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝒷𝓁𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝓂𝓅𝓉𝓎 𝒽𝓊𝑒𝓈.

𝒲𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒹𝑜𝓂 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝓌𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃,

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓃𝓊𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑒,

𝐼𝑔𝓃𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓃.

𝒯𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓂𝑒,

𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂,

𝒦𝓃𝑜𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓅𝑜𝒾𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓂𝓈.

𝒲𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃.

𝒲𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽.

𝒫𝑜𝑜𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁,

𝒲𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝓃𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹.𝐸𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝑒𝓍𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒!

Moving through a shade cloaked landscape of crumbling foundations and rotting debris,



a petite figure slinked between and over obstacles with a timid skittishness,



every movement thoughtful as if one wrong step would mean certain death;

one hand there,

another step here...



It was wrong.



All wrong.



Nothing had been like this before.



Demons weren't claiming and setting territories with harsh punishments for trespassers,

no traps or boundaries set.



She just wanted to feel safe,

like she did before everything changed,



before all the peacefulness collapsed and everything reversed.



(Found this in my notes that I'd made a year ago, so I thought it was only fair to share this here.)