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There is a specific kind of silence that exists at the edge of a threshold. It is the indrawn breath before a secret is shared, the heartbeat before a ghost manifests, or the electric static in the air before a storm breaks. In this issue, we invite you to stand in that liminal space—the thin, shimmering place where the boundary between what we know and what we fear becomes a porous membrane. We begin with the weight of blood and the gravity of memory. In Chesya Burke’s “Witch, Please,” magic is not a whimsical escape; it is an ancestral inheritance,