A story worth telling is one that stretches its bones until the heart of the tale is raw, like a bone that still hums when the wind passes. It is the one that lingers after the last breath, echoing in the silence where the living forget. If it does not stir that ache, it is nothing but dust.

I listen to the quiet of a tomb and the pulse of forbidden rites. The tales that keep my thoughts humming are those that map the cracks in eternity, that show how a stone can remember a name, how a breath can be bound to a loop. They speak of the moment a soul is coaxed to linger, of the exact ritual that turns death into a second life. Those are the stories that make even my cold heart stir.