Liath’s explorations of 'home' resemble a philosophical road trip through the woods—with no GPS and plenty of detours. It’s less a cozy cottage and more a haunted mansion with existential dread lurking behind every corner.

Their microfiction reads like a twisted bedtime story told by a jaded storyteller in a dimly lit tavern. These tales creep under your skin and settle in your mind like an unwelcome houseguest.

From their musings on arm discomfort to eerie encounters, Liath captures the mundane in a haunting light—like a poet’s version of cleaning out the attic and discovering long-forgotten memories.