April’s air whispers secrets through the cracks of her bedroom window, where Little Black Dreams cling like ink to the moonlit edges of the floor. Vani, her pencil a wand, sketches silhouettes of her mind’s theater: paper birds with shattered wings, constellations named after unasked questions, and forests where shadows hum lullabies in reverse.
April’s air whispers secrets through the cracks of her bedroom window, where Little Black Dreams cling like ink to the moonlit edges of the floor. Vani, her pencil a wand, sketches silhouettes of her mind’s theater: paper birds with shattered wings, constellations named after unasked questions, and forests where shadows hum lullabies in reverse.