To stand at its edge is to feel the weight of every promise ever lowered into darkness on a frayed rope. The water does not reflect your face. It reflects the faces of those who would have been —the children never born, the words never spoken, the hands never held.
Some throw coins. The brave throw keepsakes. The damned throw themselves.
But the chosen ones—the ones the well truly remembers—they lower nothing. They simply kneel, press their ear to the cool stone, and listen to the deep, slow turning of all the lives they might have lived.
The Chosen Well Of Souls (2027)
To stand at its edge is to feel the weight of every promise ever lowered into darkness on a frayed rope. The water does not reflect your face. It reflects the faces of those who would have been —the children never born, the words never spoken, the hands never held.
Some throw coins. The brave throw keepsakes. The damned throw themselves. the chosen well of souls
But the chosen ones—the ones the well truly remembers—they lower nothing. They simply kneel, press their ear to the cool stone, and listen to the deep, slow turning of all the lives they might have lived. To stand at its edge is to feel
