We Were Born of Ash and Other Small Miracles
This is not a place of happily-ever-afters. Here, folklore festers beneath the skin. Here, grief hums like an old lullaby, and horror wears the face of memory. My work does not ask to be read—it waits to be remembered. Passed down in whispers. Recounted when the wind shifts, or when the fire burns too low.
Step carefully. The soil is soft, and the stories are hungry.
Poetic in rhythm, relentless in truth, and stitched with the teeth of forgotten things, this is a collection of dream-haunted prose and folklore-infused horror. For those who’ve felt the pull of shadowed woods. For those who know that some lullabies were never meant to soothe.
Mesha Dreams in Ink. 