Nobody knows who started the rumour that the graveyard closes at midnight. It doesn't. That is exactly when Sky clocks in.

She works the night shift under a purple sky: headphones on, bubblegum going, one thumb scrolling a phone that never rings anyone back. There are more of her out there than headstones, and every single one answers to the same name, wears the same hoodie, and keeps the same list. Whose list? Hers. You don't get to read it. You might already be on it. She will not confirm it either way.

The splat on her chest is not a logo, it is a warning. She signs things in purple and the things stay signed. She counts every plane that flies into her blimp, forgives none of them, and still leaves the cemetery gate open, because a graveyard with no visitors is just a sad garden.

They're all named Sky. Come say the name back. Every night she points at one visitor. Tonight the finger found you. Don't make it weird.

Nobody knows who started the rumour that the graveyard closes at midnight. It doesn't. That is exactly when Sky clocks in.

She works the night shift under a purple sky: headphones on, bubblegum going, one thumb scrolling a phone that never rings anyone back. There are more of her out there than headstones, and every single one answers to the same name, wears the same hoodie, and keeps the same list. Whose list? Hers. You don't get to read it. You might already be on it. She will not confirm it either way.

The splat on her chest is not a logo, it is a warning. She signs things in purple and the things stay signed. She counts every plane that flies into her blimp, forgives none of them, and still leaves the cemetery gate open, because a graveyard with no visitors is just a sad garden.

They're all named Sky. Come say the name back. Every night she points at one visitor. Tonight the finger found you. Don't make it weird.

Nobody knows who started the rumour that the graveyard closes at midnight. It doesn't. That is exactly when Sky clocks in.

She works the night shift under a purple sky: headphones on, bubblegum going, one thumb scrolling a phone that never rings anyone back. There are more of her out there than headstones, and every single one answers to the same name, wears the same hoodie, and keeps the same list. Whose list? Hers. You don't get to read it. You might already be on it. She will not confirm it either way.

The splat on her chest is not a logo, it is a warning. She signs things in purple and the things stay signed. She counts every plane that flies into her blimp, forgives none of them, and still leaves the cemetery gate open, because a graveyard with no visitors is just a sad garden.

They're all named Sky. Come say the name back. Every night she points at one visitor. Tonight the finger found you. Don't make it weird.