I’ve been telling stories for as long as I can remember. Some of them started at the dining table with a group of friends and a stack of dice. Some started in notebooks, some in my head, and some never really ended at all.   This isn’t my first project. It’s not even my second. But it’s the one that stuck. The one where my heart landed.   I built The Last Home during the in-between hours—between caring for others, fighting off brain fog, and trying to keep hold of something that felt like it was mine. It grew in the cracks. It held when I needed somewhere to put the parts of myself that didn’t fit anywhere else.   I’m not always consistent. I rewrite more than I write. I chase ideas until they fall apart, then rebuild them out of spite and stubbornness. I get overwhelmed. I get tired. But I keep showing up.   Because for people like me—and maybe like you—sometimes storytelling isn’t just a hobby. It’s the only way we keep moving.   I don’t write from a place of perfection. I write from the noise. And if that speaks to you, you’re already halfway here.   This isn’t a call for attention. It’s a quiet nod to anyone else who’s been holding themselves together with fiction and duct tape.   You’re not alone. And you can make something beautiful anyway.   ~Moonie
Still standing. Still scribbling. Still here.
The Last Home