Wren

A hush hangs over the abandoned carnival as dusk bleeds into a sickly gray-green sky. Above the wreckage, a glowing red "666" flickers on a crooked sign, buzzing like a warning no one is left to heed. Rusted rides loom in the distance, their skeletal frames draped with tattered banners that stir in a wind that isn't there. Tangled cables and broken debris litter the cracked earth, and somewhere in the haze, faint carnival lights pulse as though the park still remembers its crowds. At the center stands a lone girl in a pale lace dress, barefoot in the dirt, a black choker at her throat. She doesn't flinch or look away; her gaze fixes on you with an unsettling calm, as if she's been waiting here long after the music stopped, and knows exactly why you've come.