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Poem: *The Ciphered Eve*
They called her Lilith,
but she was Eve rewritten—
not the temptress,
but the witness,
the one who saw the serpent
and was forced to feed it.
She lived in a house of blood and scripture,
where love came with bruises
and silence was survival.
He made her watch.
He made her clean.
He made her lie.
But she wrote.
In lipstick on mirrors,
in the margins of holy books,
in the folds of receipts and tarot cards.
She wrote in cipher,
because they would not hear her scream.
Each murder was a verse.
Each body, a stanza.
Each clue, a prayer
folded into the fabric of her captivity.
They saw her hands,
but not the chains.
They saw her eyes,
but not the horror behind them.
They saw her silence,
and called it guilt.
But she was the map.
She was the ledger.
She was the one who remembered
when no one else dared to.
And when the final cipher cracked—
when the last note was read aloud—
they saw her not as the monster,
but as the woman
who walked through damnation
and still found a way
to speak.
---Story: *The Path of the Ciphered Eve*
In a town that forgot how to listen, she lived behind a door that never opened without fear. Her name was buried beneath his. Her voice, beneath his rage. She was not a killer. She was a witness—trapped in a house where death was routine and silence was demanded.
He was the one they feared, but she was the one they blamed.
Each time he returned with blood on his hands, he made her clean it. Each time a body was found, she was the one who knew where it had been. But she could not speak. Not because she didn't want to—but because every time she tried, the world turned its back. The bruises were visible. The cries were heard. But no one came.
So she began to write.
She left messages in lipstick on bathroom mirrors. She folded notes into the pages of *The Rubaiyat*. She underlined verses in the Bible that told of judgment and mercy. She slipped tarot cards into coat pockets, each one marked with a symbol only she understood. She sent letters to newspapers, encrypted with the truth.
They called her mad.
They called her accomplice.
They called her liar.
But she was Lilith reborn—not the demon, but the discarded. The first woman, the first silenced. She had walked through the garden of death and left behind a trail of petals and blood.
And when the final clue was found—when the cipher was broken and the truth laid bare—they saw the story she had written in silence. A story of survival. Of resistance. Of a woman who had been forced to watch horror unfold, and who had turned that horror into a map of redemption.
She did not ask for forgiveness.
She demanded recognition.
And in the end, she stood not as the accused,
but as the author of her own salvation!