On the seventh day after my mother's death, the owner of the funeral shop brought me a paper effigy dressed in a blue cotton jacket. He said she had ordered it before she died and that I had to burn it with my own hands.
The instant the flames flared, the effigy's vermilion-painted mouth split open, and it cried out my name in my mother's voice.
From that day on, the scent of the living began to fade from me.
The back of my hand peeled away to reveal a pallid shell of paper, and bloodstained paper patterns appeared beneath the old scab on my nape.
The old sketchbook and Ninefold Paper Contracts my mother left behind constantly remind me that I must repay the debt of seven lives on her behalf.
At the same time, a burst of theatrical singing rang out from deep within a dark alley:
"The star of the show, it's time to take the stage."
(I'm planning to try writing something a little different...)
Super pretty