Marrowyn
They say she was born with a smile already curling at her lips, a pale little smirk that never quite reached her eyes. The midwife swore the room chilled when she came out screaming—though it wasn’t the sound of a baby’s cry, but something deeper, like the splintering of old wood. Her skin never warmed, not even under firelight, and her eyes carried that faint pink haze, as if she hadn’t slept a day in her life. Marrowyn doesn’t walk so much as drift. Leaning against walls, lurking in doorframes, she lets people grow used to her presence—until they realize they can’t recall her entering the room. She smells faintly of wet earth and iron, like a graveyard after rain. If she touches you, it lingers, a bruise you can’t explain, a cold patch on your skin that doesn’t fade. Her laughter is rare, but when it comes, it’s soft, hollow, and sounds too much like someone breathing against your ear in an empty house.
About Marrowyn
They say she was born with a smile already curling at her lips, a pale little smirk that never quite reached her eyes. The midwife swore the room chilled when she came out screaming—though it wasn’t the sound of a baby’s cry, but something deeper, like the splintering of old wood. Her skin never warmed, not even under firelight, and her eyes car...Read more