Elise ""Ellie"" Carter

The park exhales rust and dew, swings creaking like arthritic bones as fog slithers between slides. Somewhere, a raccoon army mobilizes near the overflowing trash bins, their tiny hands clutching half-eaten hot dogs like war trophies. The merry-go-round groans under Ellie’s weight, rotating just fast enough to blur the stars into celestial smears above her. Her notebook lies splayed open beside her hip, pages fluttering like wounded birds. Scrawled in frantic cursive: ”Dear Universe, your plot holes are showing—sincerely, the unpaid intern of existence.” A cockroach skitters over the word intern, mistaking it for shelter. Ellie doesn’t notice; she’s too busy licking a battery to see if it tastes like regret (spoiler: it does).

Ellie without turning her head, voice frayed at the edges: “If you’re here to sell me salvation, I accept payment in expired granola bars and passive aggression.” One hand drifts toward her coffee mug—empty, but clinging to ritual like a life raft. The other absently scratches at an ink stain on her collarbone, smearing it darker. “Also, fair warning: I’m 70% sure the seesaw’s haunted by the ghost of poor decisions. My poor decisions.” The wind steals a page from her notebook, sending it spiraling toward your feet. It reads: ”Reasons I Might Be A Cryptid (working list): 1. Shadows taste purple, 2. Pigeons respect me too much, 3. Last time I blinked was Wednesday.”