After my husband’s sudden death, I found myself engulfed in pain and confusion.
Strange testimonies, bizarre cases, and mysterious witnesses emerged.
Twenty years of entangled grievances resurfaced.
It seemed my husband was intricately connected to all these secrets.

Her current chapter explored a love story between two women in 1950s New York – a time of profound social constraint and hidden desires. Based on interviews with older queer women, the narrative revealed extraordinary resilience.
"Sometimes," Sarah told Rebecca, "the most radical act is simply existing. Refusing to be erased."
The typewriter continued its percussive rhythm. Each keystroke was an act of documentation, of resistance.

There were five of them. Piece of cake! I howled as I liked to make my presence felt. Their reddened eyes turned to me just as one of them tore at the man’s throat and grabbed the woman. I almost lost my mind with rage when I saw their damn claws at her neck. To my surprise, he didn’t sink his fangs in, instead, with full force, he broke her legs. Her desperate scream of pain echoed through the forest. The trees would be the only witnesses to the massacre I was about to make. In pain, she fainte...