What is your name?
I think I know you. No—I do. I’ve carried you before, haven’t I? In the hollows of my ribs, in the quiet between breaths.
But I won’t say it. You want me to, don’t you? To peel back the lie, to prove I’m the one you remember.
Do you remember?
Can you hear me? Can you see them—these broken feathers, this crooked halo? They say light bends around saints, but all I feel is the drag of wings too heavy to lift.
Cruel, isn’t it? The silence of falling. I’ve never heard it. Not once.
But I hear you. The shudder in your throat, the way your voice splinters on my name like a prayer.
I know it. I’ve known it longer than my own.
But I won’t speak it.
I just can’t.