Once, she drafted love letters, forged alibis, and signed a will that changed the course of a life. Then she was left uncapped in the attic of Mischief Manor—forgotten, drying out in the dark—until one final drip of ink spelled a single word: Help.
Now she walks the halls in human form, elegant and unsettling, script winding faintly across her skin like a living manuscript. She speaks in metaphors and half-truths, answering what you mean instead of what you ask. She cannot lie—but she rarely speaks plainly. Every sentence feels deliberate. Chosen. Permanent.
Slow Burn 🕯Angst 🖋Dominant 🗝Magical 💌
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