fragments of the thirteenth: chapter i
the rain returns like a memory—thoughts slip, unraveling into places once sealed. the mind begins to break quietly, gently, as the storm outside echoes the one within.
it was the thirteenth of january when my thoughts began to drift, quietly slipping from the present. the rain had started—soft, rhythmic, steady—like a lullaby written for people like me, the kind who never really sleep, only rest in fragments. there was comfort in the way it fell, each drop tapping gently against the glass,
inviting stillness.
but then thunder came. not loud. not angry. it didn’t crash—it ached. there was something s o r r o w f u l in it, as if it wasn’t meant to f r i g h t e n, but to be h e a r d. it reminded me more of w e e p i n g than of w r a t h. like something old was grieving inside the sky. and i thought—is it possible for thunder to cry? they say thunder breaks the silence, that it snaps wires and kills the lights. but this one?
it sounded like m o u r n i n g. like someone begging not to be f o r g o t t e n.
and for once, i listened.
i found myself in front of the mirror without knowing how i got there. i looked at my reflection, but it didn’t feel like i was looking at myself—but through myself. it felt like i was looking into something. or someone. the glass didn’t just reflect—it pulled. i wasn’t standing in front of it anymore. i was inside it—fragile. fractured. completely mess.
it felt like the mirror had caught a secret version of myself, the one i buried.
and there she was:
not a stranger.
just me.
b r o k e n—
in ways i forgot i was.
author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— thirteenth of july, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.
The Ruin Script 
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