In the undead gardens behind Atlas’ house was a fluffle of buns. The host, Atlas, wandered from bun to bun with sparklers in hand, nodding courteously at his companions before handing them their individual sparklers. Mochi Moon was a time of gathering, of ringing in the New Year, and to celebrate until they passed out from overindulgence, of course. His imps trailed behind him, some fresh on his heels, others rested in the crook of his neck for safety. His pink loafki, Chantilly, found the ...
