I called it the Magnolia blues. Her absence chilled the house like an empty wood pile. The smeared ink notes spoke of a need for change. I’d flick through her leftover dresses that hung like scarecrows in our closet.

I’ve spent plenty of afternoons at the edge of town wandering through the high grass fields.

My silver Pentax took grainy visions— ones she used to attach pithy captions to. Her memory shone like a midnight flare in those moments

Her last words ghosted through my mind,

“It feels like an alien entity. I don’t want this, but I don’t know what to do.”

I didn’t believe in curses before I met her. Nor would I if I hadn’t seen the abyss reflected in her eyes. Hope would flicker like campfire sparks— only to be extinguished by relentless tendrils.

I thought of praying— but the idea of gaining attention from either side scared me. It hadn’t been real before. I had been confident that it was all fairytales and pixie dust. The stories that charlatans tell to sell crystals and read unimportant lines.

It didn’t matter in the end. Not for her. Not for the future of this dying town.