Alexa Daskalakis
Notes on what it means to be human—
written from the edge of time, memory and silence.
Each piece below appears as a standalone entry.
These are the ones I returned to.
The full archive, in chronological order, is available on the Archive page.
The word was always the same.
On a winter that refused us nothing.
A short story about a friendship.
A story about the quiet work of holding what matters.
A short work of literary fiction about inheritance, silence, and mislabeled danger.
I didn’t name any of the places. But the memories showed up folded.
What went out had to come back.
A buzzing light. An unfinished song. A girl who left quietly.
She forgot. Her body didn't.
After someone, there's still a way you move.
A child who read the room before the page.
Everything about them was correct.
A literary winter fable in prose — A man is summoned north to inspect a structure no one admits to building.
He said he was only going underground for a while. He called it peace. But to everyone watching, it looked exactly like death.
A Christmas fable for men who remember what they never said.