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“Some people flinch at storms, but not me. I’ve always loved them. There’s something romantic about the way the sky unravels and demands attention. Storms don’t pretend to be anything but what they are. They come undone in a furiously loud sight. I admire that frankness. There’s a strange kind of peace in it too—the way the air stills before the crack, the hush that makes even the ghosts pause. Thunder reminds me that the world’s still turning. That a force that has seen generations come and go still thrashes and breathes and sings.”
― Grim
― Grim
“But I barely hear her. I’m staring at my hands like they betrayed me. I shouldn’t have been able to touch her. Reapers can’t touch the living. It’s rule one. Basic metaphysics. The ironclad law of the OtherWorld. We pass through. We guide. We never touch. We can’t. Except … My fingers still remember the curve of her hip. The heat of her. The weight. I reach out without thinking, kneeling beside her, and run my hand gently along her cheek. Soft. Warm. Real. It’s impossible. “This can’t be happening. There’s no w—OW!” Her fist collides with my jaw before I can finish the thought. “Don’t touch me!”
― Grim
― Grim
Chauntae'’s 2025 Year in Books
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