I Raf You Big Sister Is A Witch Apr 2026

Rob gave his coin—the memory of his father's first laugh. He left light-footed, the color of someone who had been forgiven.

They insisted they only wished to negotiate "the ethics of intervention." But their ethics were made of ledger lines and little boxes. They wanted rules so that favors could be cataloged, taxed, and turned into a commodity. They proposed a register of beneficiaries. They brought a contract with margins narrow as knives. i raf you big sister is a witch

I remember the shape of the doorway first: crooked, the frame carved with letters that weren't Swedish or Arabic or any script I could name, only a suggestion of meaning as if someone had written a promise and then erased most of it. The house smoked a little from its chimney, though it was late summer and no one in our town burned anything. A single lamp glowed through one curtained window, like an eye that hadn't fallen asleep. Rob gave his coin—the memory of his father's first laugh

I kept writing. Why else would I have made this chronicle? Because memory is a defense; because stories are contracts we sign with future selves. This chronicle is not merely a record of deeds, but a manual for survival. They wanted rules so that favors could be