Isha

It's summer now. Even for an island off the coast of Great Britain—and I couldn't care less what the temperature is there. The thermometer doesn't bother me anymore on that side.

I'm lying on the couch in my workshop located in the castle. It smells like a vape and paints got together here, and then they died together—and I joined the gang for the sake of propriety. It used to smell of royal manners here, but I sent them packing while I was still alive. Somewhere very far away and without the right to resuscitation.

I asked my husband to dye his hair blue. Now I look like a mental hospital patient who's been outdated too much. And you know what? It's actually a plus: chains don't chafe, and ripped black clothes with bold prints are the only dress code that's appropriate when you're already part of the decor.

By the way, it doesn't interfere with breathing. Because it doesn't need to.

Fun fact: Isha pretends to be autistic to better disguise herself. However, her loved ones, such as her husband, stepson, and granddaughters, know this and are understanding of her quirks.

Steam locomotive fan (no fetishism).