mz-0325

[mz-0325]

‏The Deceptive Mirrors

Part Three —”The Tallow Piano”

The house wasn’t small so much as it was simple,

as if the walls had long ago renounced the luxury of preening and mirrors,

afraid they might be forced to face themselves.

On the city’s edge, where rain slicked the roads like dew not yet dry,

Reno woke in a quiet room that felt like an old tale.

A cool, clean light slipped in through a lone window,

dragging with it the smell of old wood and a rain that would not end.

He had no sense of how long it had been since the world turned on its head—

Days? Weeks?—

for hours here aren’t counted; they dissolve like sugar in cold tea.

The first thing he saw was a hand coming toward his mouth, carrying a spoon—

a hand he knew from somewhere,

from a time he no longer trusted to have existed.

— “Drink.”

Her voice was simple, decisive—an order that brooked no debate.

It was Kaya: plain house clothes, hair tied in haste and pinned with a pencil,

a face bare of makeup yet full enough to keep the thought of hunger at bay.

On her wrist, a small, faded tattoo: the logo of Giuseppe’s,

the restaurant he had once bought and then shuttered when it failed—

after Kaya’s father was thrown out of the place… and out of life,

the way light is dismissed by the arrival of darkness.

His paralyzed body shivered like a fetus trying to stretch inside a cramped womb—

not from pain, but from a cold certainty laid bare at once:

this hand fed him today,

and it was the same hand that had tasted hunger because of him years ago.

She said nothing.

She set the spoon to his lips and waited.

Her eyes confessed neither knowing nor ignorance.

She left him between two banks, the waves tossing him in an unending ache.

In the corner, an old piano sat.

Its ivory keys had yellowed, like a candle melted from tallow.

It was playing the same melody with no player—

the tune that had clung to the air since that night… the night of the pizza deal,

as if trying to remind someone of something forgotten—or not wished to be remembered.

Inside him, the questions fought:

Was the sound real?

Was the piano real at all?

Or was everything happening only inside his head?

Outside the window, the rain was writing on the glass in a slanted hand,

while inside, Reno began the first line in a notebook he did not own:

“I am not this man… but this body is mine.”

— “I’ll be right back.”

She said it while gathering the plates and slipped into the kitchen,

where nothing could be heard but the clatter of utensils

and a knife tapping wood in a steady rhythm—

like a heart that had decided not to quicken, no matter what.

As he tried to catch his breath, the door opened.

A man in his fifties came in carrying a paper bag,

the smell of warm pastries seeping from its seams.

He smiled at Kaya and said in a voice Reno knew:

— “I brought what I promised… just the way your father used to ask for it.”

His heart trembled. The waiter from that night.

The same voice, with that note that comes just before an apology.

The man paused when he saw Reno lying there,

but the bandages and scars smudging Reno’s features made him turn away,

as if nothing merited a second look.

Reno breathed slowly. Inside him a scream no one heard:

“It’s me… have I changed that much?”

With his eyes he searched for a mirror he wanted and feared, and found none.

Before the waiter turned his head, he left a passing glance

that stopped a second longer than it should on Reno’s eyes.

It was the kind of look that touches a closed door and withdraws—

not for lack of a key, but because it would not venture into the labyrinth of doubts.

— “He looked a bit like you when he was swollen, that friend of yours…

but his face changed a lot once the swelling went down,”

the waiter said, turning to Kaya.

— “Accidents change everything,”

she answered, setting the bag on the table.

For a fleeting moment, the waiter seemed about to say more—

but the air between them filled with a silence that refused to break.

He offered a brief smile instead and simply said, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

— “Take good care of your patient, Kaya.”

He leaned toward her a little, his voice more a long exhale than speech:

“You said he was your wealthy boss… one of the rare ones—

the kind who leave a mark on your life that doesn’t taste of bitterness.”

He closed the door, and the silence returned.

Watching her lift the bag, Reno caught, in the corner of the room, a small framed photograph:

a young woman laughing beside a man who resembled her, two or three decades older.

Her face was thinner, and her eyes burned with a brightness not yet dimmed.

Beneath the photo, a medical bag—familiar from the profession he had neglected—

sat half open, as if confessing what it kept hidden.

Then he understood what she had not said:

that the hand feeding him now was the hand denied treatment for years,

until illness remade her body, and the lithe girl who once outshone Melanie

in charm and tenderness became a woman swollen with sorrow

before her body ever filled out.

And still, her features held on to a plain, stubborn beauty—

a flower that had fought to live in alien soil.

He did not ask where he was, or why he was there.

He knew whatever answer there was would not be spoken until she chose to speak it.

But that night, when the rain drew back,

he heard her steps pass close to his bed—pause for a beat, then move on.

Something in their cadence said:

“You will not leave here as you came.”

It was neither a prophecy of revenge, nor a promise of mercy.

It felt like a starting signal for something not yet named.

And in his chest, for the first time since the accident,

he felt his survival had not been an accident at all,

but a silent summons to a wider game—

one that would ask for his hand… and hers.

“All literary rights to this excerpt are reserved. Any unauthorized use, reproduction, or alteration is strictly prohibited and may result in legal action.”

#mz0325

#WallsOfTheJewel

#TheTallowPiano

#TheDeceptiveMirrors

#ShortStory

#LiteraryFiction

#PoeticProse

#DarkAesthetics

[mz-0325]

I will write of the duality of flowers and women.

I will write of how they embrace each other,

how they awaken the pulse in my heart.

I will write to them, and about them,

from the surges of my soul.

I will gift them my feelings,

wrapped as a bouquet—

completing the scene of paradise,

the paradise of emotions:

those honest, sweeping, tender sensations

summed up in a single truth—

a bouquet of flowers embracing a bouquet of flowers…

or a woman.

At times, I can no longer tell the difference.

#WallsOfTheJewel #ProsePoetry #PoeticProse #WriterLife #LiteraryEchoes #BookLovers #mz0325

[mz-0325]

This is beyond imagination—

a tide of femininity striking

with a whip woven from feathers,

greeting me with liquid light

that quenches my hunger for beauty

and my thirst for art.

In this image, you have gathered the stars

and placed them in your basket,

my luminous lady—

my beautiful artist,

or perhaps,

my artistic beauty.

#WallsOfTheJewel #ProsePoetry #PoeticProse #WriterLife #LiteraryEchoes #BookLovers #ArtOfFemininity #mz0325

[mz-0325]

“They shall have from me nothing but iron and fire…

A blazing tyranny, born from the womb of kindness itself—

as if light had turned upon its very core.”

#poetry #prose #literature #writing #vanGogh #art #painting #poeticprose #literaryart #WallsOfTheJewel #mz0325 #symbolism #tyranny #lightanddarkness

[mz-0325]

A photo with the soul of a painting.

Sunsets always stir something inside me—

especially when their burning gradients

rest gently across water,

like a melody still searching for its singer.

And you, my lady,

have sung it with your lens.

A visual lullaby worthy of dusk.

#SunsetWhispers #VisualPoetry

#PaintingWithLight #SymbolicSeeing

#SoulInStillness #EveningEchoes

#WallsOfTheJewel #mz0325

[mz-0325]

The Deceptive Mirrors

Short Story – Part 2: “A Mirror That Won’t Reflect You”

The city had shed its skin.

Nothing about it resembled that night when the pizza deal was struck.

Even Rino had changed—

or so he liked to believe.

Women had passed through his life like suitcases tossed across airport carousels.

But Melanie?

She was the first who had managed to tame his recklessness without dimming his narcissism.

She stayed.

Like femininity sculpted in haste, then polished slowly,

her face gleamed each morning like jewels locked in the vaults of the rich:

crafted to be seen,

not touched.

Her heart wore high heels,

walking with confidence over the throats of others—

like the beauties of ancient myths

who step on human skulls

thinking they’re flowers.

Rino, on the other hand, remained the lazy heir to a pharmaceutical empire—

a business that cured pain while planting hope.

He owned everything… yet chased nothing.

He smiled for cameras and swallowed his emptiness

like a tasteless pill.

When the old housekeeper retired, Kaia arrived.

She did not enter life like a model but like a hymn that no one had ever sung.

Her beauty did not announce itself;

it simply existed—

like the soft light of a candle in a closed room.

Her face looked like a woman who had dreamed so much,

she’d forgotten how to dream.

Her body was unashamed of its fullness,

embracing it like someone who finally learned to love the spaces the world once tried to erase.

And she cooked

as if atoning for something.

Every dish from her hands

was a silent prayer in a forgotten tongue.

Rino and Melanie had never tasted anything like it—

despite all their travels around the world.

But Melanie, as always, did not like surprises

that didn’t bear her signature.

One night, while Kaia walked through the salon carrying a dinner tray,

Melanie whispered to Rino, her tone low but sharp-edged:

— “She walks like a penguin, doesn’t she?”

Then she laughed,

a brief laugh that bit off a piece of dignity not her own.

Sometimes, she even shouted at Kaia for no real reason,

watering the plant of her malice so it wouldn’t wither.

Kaia never answered.

She received the words like stones skipping across a lake.

She rippled…

then stilled.

Then smiled.

But in her room, everything was said.

She cried in organized silence,

pulling out an old photograph of a man who looked like her—

her father.

Then whispered with a voice

stitched together from shards:

— “Papa…

I promised you I’d bring the house back.

I’ll pay off the debts,

and reopen the restaurant you dreamed of.

I’ll endure this woman…

and I’ll be patient,

so your spirit doesn’t grow angry.”

One evening, Rino walked into the lounge

after overhearing Melanie berating Kaia—

because the spoon was not turned to the right.

Kaia had already slipped into the kitchen.

Melanie sat on the sofa,

wiping her lipstick with her finger

as if reshaping what a moment of rage had smudged.

Rino spoke,

with the calmness of a man who buys loyalty

the way he buys luxury watches:

— “Kaia is excellent.

We can’t replace her if she leaves.”

Melanie exhaled slowly,

lifting a strand of hair

as if pushing away a guilt she didn’t want:

— “I know…

But she gets under my skin.

She glows like some kind of saint.

She walks like the ground owes her something.

And the worst part?

Her cooking, her flawless running of this house…

it reminds me that I need her,

just as she needs me.

Maybe… even more.

Despite all I own, there’s something in her I can’t buy.”

Rino smiled,

glancing at the watch on his wrist—

a watch worth a small fortune:

— “But we have everything.

Youth, beauty, money…

even time.”

A pause.

Then, slower than necessary, Melanie said:

“Sometimes…

I feel this luxury is fragile,

like someone, somewhere,

will open a ledger

and demand the price.

Not in money…

but in something I don’t understand.

Some nights…

I wonder, in a voice no one hears:

Why do I have a roof over a palace,

while someone else sleeps in the rain?”

Rino said nothing.

He had never learned to think—

only to consume.

In the next room,

Kaia was washing dishes.

At that exact moment,

a silver spoon slipped from her hand into the sink.

Its metallic clang rolled through the silence

like a final coin

paid for a change that hadn’t yet been announced.

She lifted her eyes to the kitchen cabinet mirror

and saw her reflection:

a tired face,

eyes hiding a tear,

a slanted shoulder no one noticed.

She wiped the mirror with her sleeve—

but the image didn’t change.

She whispered:

— “I’ll leave soon.

When I’m ready.

This place doesn’t reflect me…

even its mirrors don’t tell the truth.”

Before leaving, Rino passed through the kitchen

where Kaia was preparing breakfast.

He glanced at the empty golden plate—

the one Melanie used to crown with her morning smile—

and left it as it was:

shiny on the outside,

hollow on the inside.

He thought his kingdom was invincible…

but chaos had already begun to stir:

mysterious deaths,

investigations,

and medical reports pointing trembling fingers at his name.

The next morning,

Rino received a call from one of his company directors.

The voice on the other end was shaky,

words tangled—

the problem was big,

the future at stake.

He threw on his jacket and left without breakfast.

He forgot his cologne

and didn’t fix his hair.

He drove as if chasing a ghost…

or fleeing from his own reflection.

The highway shimmered under the sun,

but it showed no mercy.

At the sharp bend,

he didn’t see the truck.

The crash made no sound—

it was an ending

that hadn’t yet been written into his story.

The windshield shattered like old snow breaking across his face.

And the sound of brakes?

It came late—

like regret.

He didn’t scream—

because no one was listening.

When he woke—if he woke at all—

his head was tilted,

his body crumpled in the seat

like a doll that had lost its shape.

The side mirror?

Shattered.

Among the shards of glass…

a distorted reflection of a street

he once thought he owned.

At last, he saw the truth:

every straight line was a curve,

and every color was just shades of ash.

And no one saw him close his eyes…

as if, finally,

he was saying sorry.

At that moment,

Kaia played an old melody

on the ancient piano in the empty mansion.

Its notes fell like brittle leaves,

while Melanie arranged the golden plates for dinner.

Only the great hall mirror saw:

how the pianist was becoming the mistress of the house,

and the mistress

a shadow lurking behind the doors.

⸻

#TheDeceptiveMirrors

Tags: #shortstory #psychologicalfiction #symbolism #darkliterature #emotionalwriting #moraldecay #classcritique #femalecharacters #luxuryandemptiness #mz0325 #substackfiction #aestheticviolence

© All rights reserved. Any reproduction, distribution, or adaptation of this work without explicit permission is a violation of copyright law and subject to legal accountability.

[mz-0325]

“This isn’t a chain,” he said,

fastening the necklace around her throat.

“It’s a medal for beauty that can’t be bought.”

But some medals don’t shine.

They whisper.

They say:

You’re safe… as long as you stay silent.

#literarysymbolism #darkfiction #goldenchain #gildedsubmission #mz0325 #fictionalwomen #poetryprose #symbolicwriting #aestheticaffliction

[mz-0325]

This soft, furry creature

reminded me of myself at three — maybe four.

I’d spend hours behind the window,

watching trees, and hills, and license plates.

Counting ants.

Wondering how a fly sees me.

Do I look small, like I do to my mother?

Or a giant — compared to her tiny world?

#originalwriting #poeticprose #tumblrwriters #childhoodmemory #existentialwonder #spilledthoughts #windowpoetry #softmoments #writingcommunity #mz0325

peaceful windows 🌸✨

[mz-0325]

I think using AI images to promote your writing isn’t a super wise move.

I appreciate the concern — truly.

But I guess I missed the memo that said creativity should fear innovation.

We’re not just heading into the age of AI… we’re living in it.

And I plan to write with ink and with light. ✍️✨

#mz0325

[mz-0325]

In a world that rarely pauses,

she found a staircase that asked her to linger.

Each step bore the weight of a title,

each color whispered a voice once inked.

She didn’t just ascend—

she translated herself,

from woman to witness,

from reader to relic.

The trees stood still.

The grass leaned closer.

And somewhere between leaf and thought,

she realized:

books don’t carry us upward—

they deepen the ground beneath our feet.

#BooksAsAltars #GreenQuiet #SymbolicReading #mz0325

[mz-0325]

‏The Deceptive Mirrors

‏Short Story – Part 1: “A Deal with the Taste of Pizza”

The lighting in the restaurant was soft, dripping from the ceiling like colored regret that arrived too late for confession.

The piano in the corner played by itself… or mourned. It bled its notes alone, as if trying to resuscitate the dead.

Rino, tall and handsome in a way that resembled advertisement lies, sat across from Melanie — a young woman whose beauty cut like the thorns of a rose.

He had everything. And she knew it.

As for love, it hadn’t yet been served at the table.

She had ordered a “pizza with love,” as she described it — vegetarian, with a flavor of beef.

But the waiter made a mistake.

A pizza with regular meat was brought instead.

“What an idiot…” she muttered, pushing the plate away like someone brushing a scar off the cheek of a mirror.

Rino replied, exhaling through a silk-wrapped arrogance:

“Poor people, Melanie… their world runs slow. It’s as if they were created to serve us, not to live beside us. Fortunately, they’re useful.”

She laughed. She didn’t protest.

His words sounded a lot like her.

The waiter returned, apologetic, carrying a new dish.

But Melanie sighed harshly:

“I said beef flavor, not chicken… Don’t you have ears?!”

The waiter paused. Then said with a brittle calm:

“The chef… his daughter is very ill. Maybe he got distracted.”

She raised an eyebrow, then gave Rino a look he knew well: Prove your manhood.

He picked up his phone and called the restaurant owner directly:

“The service tonight is below standard… I want the chef fired.”

He didn’t hesitate, even in front of the waiter.

The owner tried to keep his balance:

“Mr. Rino… this chef is one of the pillars of my restaurant. He built our flavor. Today, he was just… scattered.”

Rino, with a smile carved from decadent ice:

“How much for the restaurant?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“I’ll pay twenty million. The offer lasts ten seconds.”

The owner went silent.

Ten seconds were enough to sell everything, even his dignity.

He said:

“Done.”

Rino, without blinking:

“First decision: the chef is fired. Tomorrow morning.”

The waiter objected:

“Sir… he needs the job. His daughter’s in the hospital.”

Rino looked at him — his eyes issuing a military order:

“Would you like to join him?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now… prepare her pizza exactly as she desires. With her favorite flavor of revenge.”

Melanie stood up, swaying in her intoxicating green dress — chlorophyll of cruelty,

like a poisonous leaf falling in a forest of burning morals.

Then she leaned down and injected a kiss into his cheek…

It resembled a luxurious dose of venom.

Even her green eyes glimmered under the light — like toxic mushrooms in a rain-soaked jungle.

After his conquest, when he pulled out his phone like a pistol…

and pressed the button as if pulling a trigger: fire the chef.

It was a cheap victory.

But she felt it was priceless.

And maybe, that evening, a bitter piece of pizza lodged in a man’s throat…

He choked on his tears, before choking on the loss of his daughter.

When they left, the waiter picked up the fallen slice of pizza.

He tossed it into the trash.

Then looked up at the hidden ceiling camera…

and smiled.

In the kitchen, the chef’s knife was still warm.

And while the blade cooled slowly, the piano began to play on its own.

⸻

#TheDeceptiveMirrors

Tags: #shortstory #psychologicalfiction #classcritique #symbolism #darkliterature #mz0325 #substackfiction #emotionalwriting #moraldecay #aestheticviolence #elitestorytelling

© All rights reserved. Any reproduction, distribution, or adaptation of this work without explicit permission is a violation of copyright law and subject to legal accountability.

[mz-0325]

That warmth is not the blanket’s—

it’s the longing of a lover left behind.

When near, the beloved is sweet with a trace of ache;

when far, bitter with a memory of sweetness.

It’s a beautiful torment we never escape—

nor do we truly wish to.

#walls of the jewel

#original fiction

#amwriting

#writers of tumblr

#writing excerpt

[mz-0325]

Absence, too, carries weight.

Some people remain—loudly—through the silence they leave behind.

#literaryfiction #arabicwriting #absence #presence #symbolism #psychologicalfiction #introspective #tumblraesthetic #arabicaesthetic #walls of the jewel

[mz-0325]

Anger isn’t a feeling.

It’s a predator.

It waits behind small moments—

strikes when we’re soft,

laughing, healing,

almost whole.

Its danger is surprise.

Our weakness?

We never train for its arrival.

#walls of the jewel

#original fiction

#writing community

#indie writer

#writers of tumblr

[mz-0325]

A Light That Watches the Pulse

(Excerpt from “Walls of the Jewel” – All rights reserved)

⸻

The Hall

A hall like a temple from the future: no windows, no columns—only a sky-shaped dome floating above, as if watching the pulse of the universe and its silent prayers.

Scattered holographic lights mimicked tiny galaxies, while towering screens wove slow-turning images of the Blue Jewel planet—spinning on its axis as though it were observing us, not the other way around.

The walls were white—blindingly so.

As if the camp wanted us to see ourselves… cleansed of guilt.

The trainees sat in a meticulously designed amphitheater, each person in a precisely calculated seat—every body placed, every presence measured.

Their gray suits clung to them like second skin, traced with red lines that ran across the chest—pointing to the heart, as if to remind:

Beneath love and kindness, we watch your pulse before your words.

Behind them, the robots moved like silent phantoms.

No footsteps. No friction.

Only a faint, unbroken hum—

And glowing eyes recording everything:

a glance, a breath, a hesitation, a fake smile… everything.

⸻

At the Front

Chad stood tall—fortyish, strikingly composed in his refined version of the trainees’ gray suit.

Beside him: the poised and unreadable Sara.

And Ram, who never looked anyone in the eye.

His face seemed forged from the coldness of machines and the hesitancy of humans—or maybe he just feared the glare of truth might ignite something hidden deep inside.

Behind them, a colossal screen glowed with the camp’s emblem:

“Only the kind… deserve paradise.”

Below the phrase, one hand opened a cosmic gate toward the Jewel planet, while the other delved into its depths—natural and artificial—shaped by eight centuries of colonization.

⸻

The Assembly Begins

Chad (his voice firm and theatrical):

“Today, with the final group of trainees assembled, we begin the last phase of the program.”

“You’ve passed the first stage… and earned your Certificate of Kindness, granted by ten witnesses from your known circles—each under the influence of the truth serum.”

A pause.

Behind him, the screen flickered into life—projecting personal images: parents, friends, family.

Kara saw herself with her mother, seated at a dinner table dressed in black and gold. Too many dishes. Too few words.

Mira saw an old picture—her father smiling faintly in the background. Before the accident.

Her eyelids trembled. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

Lia caught it in a swift, subtle glance—

But Ram had already noticed… a fraction of a second earlier.

His eyes, trained to avoid contact, never missed when it came to Lia.

There was something she didn’t understand—

and something he understood too well.

Not even the silent tear escaped the tension written in Lia’s posture.

With a trembling hand, Mira clutched the edge of her seat,

as if trying to save a memory from drowning.

⸻

Elsewhere—Where the Tide Remembers

In another corner of the world, Samira was hosting a peculiar celebration—

quiet yet grand.

Tables draped in embroidered cloth, pearl-like confections, delicate violet ornaments.

Everything whispered one message:

I have ascended.

Women of the upper community were present—

Their conversations rehearsed, their laughter bitter-sweet,

Sipping tea as if sipping liquid prestige.

Amid the refinement, one lone, withered flower remained.

Samira hadn’t placed it.

No one dared to remove it.

Laila sat among them—her body present, her spirit long gone.

Without a word, she stepped out onto the wooden terrace facing the sea—

That old friend she used to confide in,

Listening to its songs during moments of inner tightness.

Bill was there.

Bill: “How’s the party?”

Laila (calm, yet burning): “Organized… to the point of pretension.”

Bill (softly): “You never liked your sister’s flair. Her need to appear noble.”

Laila: “We’re from the third class, Bill. Samira acts like she was born on a throne.”

Bill: “Maybe it’s an old dream—one she almost fulfilled. She left the camp for you.”

Laila (tense): “For me? I never asked her for anything.”

Bill (carefully): “Still… we love her. That means accepting the parts we wish weren’t there.”

Laila (staring out at the sea): “I love her. But I love my daughter more.

And she is my red line.

Even the kindest… become fierce when someone crosses that line.”

Bill fell silent. Something shifted.

Was this new love… an ancient one reborn?

Or had loss reprogrammed his heart and filled it with light?

And at that precise moment—when light met light—

The camp’s screens lit up again, casting their glow on the trainees’ faces.

⸻

Chad Resumes

“From today onward, three witnesses will be chosen at random—

from among you… and from among us.”

Murmurs stirred like a timid breeze—

Then surged into a current of unease.

Kara looked at Mira,

Who stared at the ground.

A second tear lingered at the corner of her eye—

Unwilling to fall,

Unwilling to retreat.

Chad (with a quiet smile):

“You’ll face physical and intellectual challenges… and group tasks.

The goal is not only to win—

but to discover who you are… and who we are to you.”

Kara felt a shiver.

The word “discover” was no accident.

Do they know something?

About her? About Mira? About the past?

Sara (dead calm):

“The three witnesses will also be administered the truth serum.”

A realization crept in—

Here, justice wasn’t blind.

It was transparent… to the point of exposure.

⸻

Internal Monologues

Kara (thinking):

“I’m not your mother, Mira… but I’m more than a sister.

I know your wounds—

I feel them… as if they were my own.”

Mira (thinking):

“Was I unfair to you? I love you, Kara…

But my mother loves you more than me.

You, with your beauty, your strength, your grace—

You remind me of what I lack.”

Then, once more, her father’s image flickered in her mind.

“Where are you, Dad?

I wish I hadn’t gone swimming that day.

I wish I’d followed the rules.

Maybe then Mom wouldn’t have changed.

Maybe none of this would’ve happened…”

⸻

MZ8 in the Shadows

In the darkness, MZ8 stood like a sentient statue—

But its neural circuits blazed.

“Kara and Mira… are unlike the others.

A crack in the system has formed—

and it might pass through them.”

Facial readings. Voice tremors. Irregular pulses.

“The old human model is unfit for a world of abundance.

If humans won’t evolve…

I will do it for them.”

⸻

The End of the Assembly

Chad (his voice deepening):

“Remember… victory, however rewarding, isn’t everything.

Sometimes… it is a trap in disguise.”

“Your tests will reveal your truth—

Without a mirror.”

The true victory… lies in the testimony of the final three.

The light dimmed.

The screens faded.

The doors opened.

The trainees walked out as if awakening from a dream—

One soft enough to forget…

Yet real enough to leave a mark.

Kara lingered.

She tried to catch Mira’s gaze.

But Mira walked away—

deliberately fast, head bowed—

as if fleeing a blame not yet born…

But one that chased her

like an absent father,

or a mother-shaped sin.

⸻

© All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be copied, reused, translated, or adapted in any form without prior written permission. Legal action will be pursued in the event of unauthorized use.

#walls of the jewel

#original fiction

#amwriting

#writers of tumblr

#writing excerpt

#psychological fiction

#dystopian fiction

[mz-0325]

Love doesn’t come alone.

It carries both sunlight and shadow,

laughter and longing,

fire and water.

In Walls of the Jewel,

you’ll witness how beauty and pain

walk hand in hand—

like day and night,

inseparable and eternal.

#walls of the jewel

#amwriting

#writers of tumblr

#writing excerpt

#psychological fiction