emilyeehaw
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Sunday knitted her brows. She shot Gallagher a weird glance. “Peculiar? This town seems normal to me,” she avowed, lazily. Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the napkin, though. Her tone was coy.
“A town that slumbers doesn’t, to me,” the older woman said back. Sunday’s reply sounded rushed. It suddenly irked her, for some odd reason. “People spending their days indoors is definitely not normal.”
“Oh, no. But life itself does.” Sunday chewed on her words as if tired. “So I won’t put my nose into made-up problems.”
or,
In a peculiar, slumbering town, Gallagher finds comfort in an enigmatic woman.
Bookmarked by emilyeehaw
18 Mar 2026
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The dining room is quiet.
Vincent sets the plate down with care, aligning it to the table as if there were anyone present to judge him for crookedness.
Presentation matters. Always has.
He knows every step that led here. He remembers the heat of the pan, the sound of fat meeting metal, the timing measured down to the second. His hands never shook. They never do when he’s cooking. This dish is the culmination of weeks of certainty, of a belief held so tightly it had to be true.
Vincent adjusts his grip on the fork, the tines catching for a moment before sinking in.
A decisive pierce. Clean. Professional. The resistance is correct. The fibers part exactly as they should. That alone nearly makes him smile.
He lifts the bite. He does not rush.
Anticipation is half the meal, after all.
He places the bite into his mouth.
...He chews.
He pauses.
He waits.
Nothing happens.OR
He hopes it was a dream.
Vincent waits for Rody.
Rody is already gone.══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════
Based off of that one part Rix wrote in the Dead Plate Art Book about the aftermath of Vince killing Rody.
Bookmarked by emilyeehaw
18 Mar 2026