Mal Lim

In living memory of Mal Lim

On August 18, 2025, the veil swallowed Mal Lim, age 26 —

daughter of night, mother of flame, witch of shadow, eternal beloved.

Mal’s life was not daylight, it was ritual.

At COBB Tuning, she welded steel into galaxies, sparks erupting from her hands like fragments of dying stars.

Her coworkers were not just colleagues — they were her coven of fire, her circle of iron and laughter, the ones who stood with her in smoke and flame.

She loved them as kin, and they loved her back, her presence a spell that bound their days together.

When the torches dimmed, her body still conjured. She danced like a storm moving through flesh, every step a spell, every motion a liturgy.

She drew visions from the void, inked tattoos into skin like scripture carved in blood, and turned silence itself into art.

But her greatest spell was her devotion to her daughter, Morti.

Together they painted the night with crooked colors, waged kingdoms across a chessboard like sorcerers of fate, and ended every day with whispered bedtime stories, incantations of love and protection. To Morti, Mal gave not just life, but entire galaxies.

Mal lived as a gothic witch, cloaked always in black, casting blessings and curses with equal devotion.

She was smoke that clung, shadow that shielded, fire that defied extinction.

Her circle remains unbroken:

*Angelica, her mirror-sister — pink outside, gothic flame within — her twin in shadow and reflection.

*Mike, Angelica’s husband, who shared with Mal the language of engines and machines; their long conversations about cars stitched another thread of kinship into her life.

*Ja’Neil, her brother of laughter, who brought Morti joy and light amid ruin.

*Abendigo, her unseen brother, joined by blood and by art — their voices a stitched bond across the dark.

*Lester, her father, who shared with her the sacred permanence of tattooing, the ritual of ink and needle.

She is also remembered with respect by Bradley, the father of her daughter — a man who offers Morti steadiness, kindness, and care. In his way, he, too, carries forward part of the light Mal fought to give her child.

And she is mourned with unending grief by her fiancé, Jeremy — her chosen one, her cosmic counterpart, her eternal person. Together they were not simply two lives, but twin constellations orbiting the same abyss. She was the black flame in his cathedral, he the silence that cradled her fire. Their devotion was written across the void, inked in stars and sealed in shadow. What they shared was not bound by time or flesh, but by the endless gravity of love — a bond that will burn beyond the grave, unbroken, unending.

Mal will not be remembered in the shallow glow of day. She will be remembered in black flame and silver ash, in the sparks that rose from steel to heaven, in the way her body moved when music consumed her, in laughter and loyalty among her COBB family, in every spell, every story, every mark she carved into the marrow of those she loved.

Her absence is a cathedral in ruins.

Her memory is fire that devours silence.

She lingers still —in Morti’s hands when she draws, in the rhythm of footsteps across a dance floor, in the sparks of a welder’s torch, in the ink that stains the skin of those who carry her.

Mal Lim:

beloved witch, eternal flame,

dancer in the shadows,

black star that does not fall.