I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember.
Not by choice, but by necessity — it was the only way to give shape to everything I carried within.
For me, words can become bridges, scars, or sometimes, salvation.

My style — epic, dark, and profoundly human — draws from authors such as H. P. Lovecraft and Neil Gaiman, yet it keeps its own voice, marked by symbolism, introspection, and the light that insists on surviving even in the heart of shadows.

I’ve always loved stories unafraid to speak of death, broken faith, impossible love, and redemption that never comes. In this trilogy, I poured much more than a plot: I left fragments of myself.
Between its lines live grief, fury, hope, and, above all, humanity.

Imagination has been my refuge for decades, with the conviction that even in the darkest corners, a faint glimmer of light can still exist.

For years, I thought those old notebooks were lost. But the story refused to remain silent: it kept beating, demanding to be told.

Life eventually led me back to them, and what began inside a dusty notebook, on a simple kitchen table, grew into a trilogy.

My work is not just a story about good and evil, angels or demons.
It is a journey into the deepest layers of the human soul.