Clean Slate By Mugwump Updated Page

Her hand hovered. Then, lightly, not even a word, just a shape—a single, small circle. A sun. A zero. A beginning.

She didn't stop. Her arm ached, but the ache was a prayer. Each stroke was a small death: the lover who'd handled her like a half-read book, the debt that whispered her name in the dark, the quiet agreement to shrink herself so others could feel tall. clean slate by mugwump

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.