Controlling
the language
Controlling
the power
Defining
tomorrow
With words
of today

Converting
the juncture
Converting
the instant
Defining
the moment
With all
that you say

Blessing
your loved ones
Blessing
your enemies
Cursing
the liars
Redeeming
the lost

Asking
new questions
Asking
for answers
Loving
the value
In spite of
— the cost

(Dreamsleep: August, 2025)

I have ended men. Kings. Seasons. Species. Expired gods turned monsters. I have buried entire civilizations under silence and made memory bleed into myth. I’ve pressed my palms against the trembling edge of existence and shattered its illusions one by one.
I can erase pain. Erase trauma. For humanity, it is simple. A breath. A lull. A welcome home. I take the temporary and return it to the nothingness from which it came.

But she, Fate, is not temporary.
And neither is his suffering.

Fate endures. And so does the agony she brands into him. He, the Wind, bearer of justice, healer of the world, the one who gave everything. He cannot be healed.

She is chained, yes. The sea is quiet at last.
But it is not peace. It is prison.

And every prison demands a keeper. He is that keeper. He holds her bounds in silence, his arms aching with eternity, his mercy mistaken for peace. But I know what it is. It is misery.
You sing of victory. You sing of love. And that is beautiful. And your triumph is his punishment. Your safety is his sacrifice. The Wind cannot leave. He is as chained as she.

He gave the world hope. He gave the world renewal. He gave it light.
And what did he receive in return? No freedom. No peace. Only vigilance. Only grief.

He trembles and no one sees. His breath hitches between battles, and I give him my soul to keep him standing. But every time I do, she resists harder, she tries to tear at him, escape the prison and make him hers again. Every gift becomes a burden.
Even our bond condemns him. Because I divide him from her. And she demands him whole.

He cannot truly rest. So I rest for him. I lend him my essence so he can stand just a moment longer. I watch him sleep, not in peace, but in exhaustion so deep the stars dim in empathy. And when he sleeps, borrowing my inferior soul, she stirs. And the tide begins again. And he must tiredly push her back.

He cannot win. I cannot save him. Even together, we only slow her rage as much as we fuel it. I erase her lies. He holds her back. We contain what cannot be destroyed. Because the universe won’t let me end her.

I am only the shadow of comfort.
And he is only the sentinel of grief.

He tried to escape once. Honorable. Foolish. Divine in his defiance. He believed. I believed. But love makes fools of gods.
He cannot be free. Freedom would unmake the world.

So he suffers. So I suffer with him.
Because what else can we do?

He saved me from her darkness. Gave me shape. Gave me name. Gave me purpose. But I, Oblivion, who was meant to end things, cannot end her. Cannot end his pain. Can return the everything that he gave me. Because I am nothing.

You, Ceyx and Alcyone. You carry peace in your lungs, unaware it still forged from his agony. You are the only heroes. Because he is still. Will always be. Her victim.

You’ve earned your wings, now fly free through the joyful eternity of humanity to do as you please, as we endure the miserable eternity of the gods, to do as we may.

I wish it were him who could be free. But he can’t. We carry the grief humanity would not be able to bear. It’s up to you to carry the hope we can’t have in return. I will erase the world’s trauma. You will remember the god who gave you your wings, but not the gods who still carry the sacrifice to your victory. You heroes need not be burdened by this truth. I can’t give you mercy like The Wind, but I can give you this. At least I can help you, though I can’t help him.

I give him my soul again and again. He carries it because his own cannot recover in time. Because he has not the luxury to carry it out of love alone. And I watch, helpless, as she takes more from him than I can ever give back.

He will never rest.

He will suffer for eternity.

And I will suffer with him.


~~~


The tide does not return what she has claimed,
Yet mercy stirs beyond where The Wind still weeps.
Grief binds his soul, and still the world stands free.

The sea does not forget, nor shall she release,
The universe won’t let me break the wave’s decree.
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

He spared the drowned; I watched, you flew to aid,
The waves grew jealous where devotion steeled.
Grief binds his soul, and still the world stands free.

No justice waits, yet we still remain,
Where no hope endures beneath our grief.
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

He cries out in pain, as his prisoner defies,
Two gods unite, but still can’t conquer the tide.
Grief binds his soul, and still the world stands free.

Though love remains upon the cursed shore,
No freedom stands where love once swore.
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

The Wind still weeps as sacrifice corrodes,
No victory remains where jealousy reigned.
The tide will not return the one she has ******.
Grief binds his soul, and still there is no justice for the beloved.

𝑊𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑠, 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡, 𝑎𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑.
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑡… 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑.
𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑑. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑒𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑁𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠, 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑆𝑜 ℎ𝑜𝑤? 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
“𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑, ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘.
𝐻𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡."


"𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑥ℎ𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑, ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑎𝑙. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑠. 𝑊𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦.” 𝐼 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟, 𝑖𝑛 𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑤𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑤𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟… 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦.
𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑑. 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒…

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡, 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠.
𝑊𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑑.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑖𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚.
𝐼 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑.

“𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡?” 𝐼 𝑎𝑠𝑘, 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦. “𝑊𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.”
𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦. 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠. 𝐼 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡.


"𝙏𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙤𝙣.
𝙂𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙙.
𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙟𝙤𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙗𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜."


𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑔𝑎𝑧𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤, 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒.
𝑈𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒…

“𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ,” 𝐼 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟.
“𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑?”


"𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙣 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙗𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙙,
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙚'𝙨 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢.
𝙏𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙤𝙣."


𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑝𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑, 𝑏𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠.
"𝑊𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠.
𝐴𝑠 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑢𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑠𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒."

𝐼 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑘. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ.


"𝘽𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙙.
𝙂𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚.
𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬."


𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑑𝑠, 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔.
“𝐿𝑒𝑡’𝑠 𝑔𝑜, 𝐶𝑒𝑦𝑥. 𝐿𝑒𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑓 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑑.”

𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡, 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑒𝑠.

𝐼 𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟.

𝐵𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘, 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑎𝑧𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡, 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.
𝐼 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔’𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝐷𝑖𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛?

𝑂𝑟 𝑝𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑑?
𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑣𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑜𝑟, 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.
𝐼𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡𝑜?


𝐼 𝑔𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒’𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑠.





“Look! LOOK! The birds—they carry something—seeds, scattered in flight!”
“Seeds?”
“Seeds! Look how they fall, like blessings!”
“What does it mean?”
“They want us to follow!”
“They want us to return!”

“But the land is soaked. Broken. You’d gamble your life for scattered grains?”
“They are not grains—they are gifts.”
“Or distractions. Symbols to mask ruin.”
“Let us not be reckless.”
“The waters have receded, yes. But the ground is slick, destruction is still raw.”
“They guided us to safety before. Let them guide us now.”
“Yes! They are divine!”

“See the pair—lovers, surely, blessed by the gentle poet!”
“One is the poet returned, the other the moon!”
"They have ascended to godhood!"
“And the flood—Alcyone herself!”
“She turned upon her own tide!”
“They chased her down, restored the land!”

“They carry seeds—symbols of renewal!”
“Proof of our innocence!”
“A gesture of pity for the faithful!”
“They mend destruction with prosperity!”
“Follow them! They fly with the divine grace!”
“They warned us before—now they lead us home!”

“Home?”
“You fools, there is no home!”
“Today’s ruin will be tomorrow’s haven!”
“Follow!”
“Follow the birds home!”
“Let this be the march of victory!”





𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐮𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲. 𝐍𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐬. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬.
𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦, 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫.

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥.
𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.

𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭. 𝐂𝐞𝐲𝐱 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭. 𝐖𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝. 𝐖𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.

𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.
𝐂𝐞𝐲𝐱 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.

𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰— 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐰𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥.

𝐒𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧. 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞.





𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛, 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦.

𝑇𝑜 𝑚𝑦𝑡ℎ. 𝑇𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝑇𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑚 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑.

𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑦𝑚𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑛’𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑑𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑.
𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒.

𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡, 𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑒𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑜 𝐼.

“𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒,”
𝐼 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑚𝑢𝑟.
“𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢.”


“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑦. 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑚𝑒. 𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.”

𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚, 𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡.
𝐼𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝐼 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ.

“𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ?
𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑗𝑜𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚.”


“𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑑 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑜,
𝑂𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑒'𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒.”

𝑊𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑔𝑒. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑆𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑢𝑛𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐻𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑎𝑧𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑦𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑒.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠, ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒.
“𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑑? 𝑊𝑒’𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑛.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤.”

𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙, 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑢𝑠.
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒. 𝐿𝑜𝑤, 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛, 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑟ℎ𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑚 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.


“𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.
𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮, 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙙𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡, 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬.
𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙫𝙚 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬.

𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙’𝙨 𝙟𝙤𝙮. 𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨' 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚.
𝙁𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙮, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙣.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮."


“𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢?” 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟.
“𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡? 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑?”

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑣𝑒, 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑓 𝑜𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑚 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒.

“𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒. 𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒."

𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛, 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝐶𝑜𝑙𝑑. 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.


“𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙮.
𝙏𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚.
𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙥, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙮.

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙨, 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚.
𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚. 𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚.
𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙮.”


𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒’𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑚 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.
“𝑊𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑. 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑤. 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠. 𝑊𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝑊𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ.”

𝑂𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠.


“𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢.
𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙢𝙖𝙮,
𝘼𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙖𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚.
𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙚.”


𝐴𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.
𝐼 𝑎𝑠𝑘 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑙𝑦, “𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔?”

“𝑇𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑦.”

“𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛?”
𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑦.

“𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑤𝑒’𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒.”

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑓 𝑤𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛?
𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑓 ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟?
𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑.

𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑑’𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.


“𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟. 𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛.”

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑑𝑠,
“𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒— 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮.

𝙄 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩. 𝙐𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙄 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙮𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡. 𝙂𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙎𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙖𝙠𝙚.


𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚.  


𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨, 𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙡. 𝙈𝙮 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝… 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡, 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙥𝙨𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙚. 𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙗𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚.
𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙚.
𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙗𝙮 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙮, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨.

𝘼𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙡 𝙤𝙣 𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙. 𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩. 𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙. 𝙎𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡, 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚’𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡.





𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.

𝘛𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘛𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯.

𝘖𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.


𝘚𝘰 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵.

𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘺𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺,

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯.


𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦.

𝘐 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘐, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 power of 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦.

𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦’𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.


𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦.


𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴.

𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥.

𝘈𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘫𝘰𝘺.

𝘈𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘵.


𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦.

𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥.

𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴.

𝘐 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦.

𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘢, 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦,


𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴.



𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥𝘺.
𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘯.



𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦.
𝘐𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵.


𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮. 𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘤. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐’𝘮 𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥,
𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥.





𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐀𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭—𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭? 𝐖𝐡𝐲?

𝐇𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥— 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲.

𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠—

𝐍𝐨. 𝐍𝐨, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲. 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡—

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝.

𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧.

𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬.

𝐇𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬.


𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄!


𝐘𝐎𝐔— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐄? 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐔𝐒𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍! 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃!? 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!?

𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒. 𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄— 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒—

𝐍𝐨. 𝐈—

𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥—

𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝.

𝐘𝐞𝐬. 𝐘𝐞𝐬. 𝐘𝐄𝐒.



𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.
𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬— 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐞.
𝐈 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲.
𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐆𝐨 𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞—

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.
𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞.
𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲—
𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞.





𝙄 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙚.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙝𝙪𝙢 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙄 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙪𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙬. 𝙃𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩. 𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙪𝙣 𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠. 𝘼𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚. 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙛𝙚𝙬 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙚, 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙞𝙣.

𝙊𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙, 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙖𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙎𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜.
𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜.  𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩… 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩.
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙨. 𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩. 𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚?

𝙄 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙜𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙯𝙤𝙣. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚.

𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙖 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙨.

𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙙. 𝙃𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙞𝙩.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙚𝙖 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.


𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙗𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙪𝙩𝙚 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢, 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙗𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙡𝙡. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙝𝙪𝙢 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨, 𝙄 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙. 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚, 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚, 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙗𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙥—𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙, 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢, 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝘼𝙩 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩…

𝙄 𝙘𝙧𝙮.



𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧.
“𝘼𝙡𝙘𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚. 𝘾𝙚𝙮𝙭. 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙖 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧.

“𝙉𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙉𝙤 𝙢𝙮𝙩𝙝 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙛𝙨.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥.”

𝙄 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙜. 𝙄 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙙.
𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙗𝙩 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧.

“𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙.
𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙢 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙤 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧.
𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧.
“𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥.”

“Come on, just up the hill—here. Sit. Sit down.”
“Can someone bring her water?”
“Water!?”
“Enough of that—”
“Who wants to think of water after a mass drowning?”
“Someone who’s still alive.”
“So shut up and help.”
“She’s still breathing.”
“No she’s not.”
“She is.”
“I need to sit—”
“We all need to sit.”

“Does anyone know what happened?”
“Do you have eyes?”
“It’s flooded.”
“How far?”
“How deep?”
“Does it matter?”
“Just look!”
“It’s all gone—”
“Gone how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go ask the ocean why it decided to get up and sit on us if you’re so nosy.”  
“Yeah, maybe it’ll tell you if you ask it nicely.”

“We need to send rafts—”
“There might be survivors—”
“You don’t understand—”
“We left to trade—”
“We just got back!”
“Our families—”
“Do you see them now?”
“No.”
“That’s why we need to search.”
“You can’t.”
“You must.”
“You must not.” “
No—you don’t get it.”
“They’re gone. All of them.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Then go. Go look.”
“Do you see any signs of life out there?”
“Do you see anything but water?”

“Have you seen the birds?”
“There—those two.”
“They were circling—”
“They flew into the flood!”
“They’re gazing at nothing—”
“No, at something—”
“They’re in a standoff with Alcyone!”
“They’re scouts—”
“No—sentries—”
“Her spies—”
“They’re reporting back to the wind.”
“To the dead.”
“To the sea.”
“They’re passing judgment—”
“What are they even looking at?”
“Something beyond the flood.”
“They can see the spirit—”
“The one that did this.”
“They whisper to the wind.”
“But never to us.”
“They’re not just birds.”
“They’re his.”
“Whose?”
“Her lover.”
“The poet.”  
“He’s dead.”
“So are we.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Don’t say that!”

“You think Alcyone sent them?”
“I thought they belonged to the poet?”
“She must have.”
“To help?”
“To watch?”
“To punish?”
“To redeem herself.”
“She has no redemption.”
“She tried—”
“She failed—”
“She mourned—”
“She cursed—”
“She cursed fate itself—”
“And fate cursed us back.”

“Don’t talk like that.”
“My kids are right here.”
“Maybe don’t bring your kids to the edge of an apocalypse.”
“I didn’t bring them—”
“We fled—”
“Then hush—”
“You’re scaring her.”
“She’s scared.”
“So am I.”
“We all are.”
“Not all.”
“Some are angry.”
“Some are stupid.”
“Some think they can fix it.”
“Some think stories help.”
“Some think stories are lies.”
“Some think the birds are gods.”
“I think we’re all wasting our time bickering.”

“Let’s calm down.”
“Use logic.”
“This is not logic.”
“This is screaming.”
“We’ll bring you back—”
“They’ll send rescue teams—”
“They’ll figure it out!”
“No they won’t.”
“They will.”
“They never do.”
“Someone will come.”
“Someone has to.”
“We’re still here—”
“We shouldn’t be.”
“Then why are we?”

“I saw the wave reach out—grab my sister.”
“I looked into the water. There was a face—”
“A man walked into the flood. Smiling. Like it was home—”
“The flood ate my children. Like a beast. Like it laughed at me.”
“I didn’t see anything. I ran.”
“Then don’t speak.”
“Why not?”
“You weren’t a witness.”
“I’m a survivor.”
“If you didn’t suffer, you don’t count.”
“That’s not fair—”
“He didn’t see what we saw.”
“He didn’t feel it claw through his soul.”
“No one felt it the same.”
“All of it was wrong.”

“That’s enough!”
“You people have all suffered.”
“Stop shouting!”
“You need to stand together—”
“Let us help—”
“You all need to stop—”

“We need answers.”
“We need silence.”
“We need names.”
“We need food.”
“We need to go back.”
“We need to leave.”
“We need to pray—”
“We need to forget—”
“We need to scream.”
“We need the sea to speak.”

“Was this prophecy?”
“Was it mercy?”
“Was it the wind?”
“The wind screamed—”
“The wind mourned.”
“The wind was her lover—”
“The wind betrayed her.”
“The wind tried to save her.”
“No—the wind tried to save us.”
“Then why did it fail?”
“Because no one was worth saving.”
“Because someone lied.”
“It wasn’t the wind.”
“It was her tears.”
“No—it was his tears.”
“It was the fates mourning her mistake.”
“The moon wept for its dead poet.”
“No one left to sing for the sky.”
“We are the sky!”
“And no one sings for us.”

“Stop.”
“They’re crazy.”
“Maybe they did this.”
“Why would they?”
“How could they?”
“They’re not crazy.”
“They’re grieving.”
“So are we.”
“But we didn’t see it happen.”
“Near-death rewrites the mind.”
“It rewrites the world.”



“HEY—HEY EVERYONE—SHUT UP AND LOOK!”



…



“It’s… receding.”
“No.”
“Look.”
“Is it real?”
“Real.”
“It’s pulling back.”
“It’s—”
“Why?”
“How?”
“What’s happening?”
“Is this a second wave?”
“No… it’s quiet.”
“Like breath drawn in.”
“Like it’s… listening.”

“Maybe we did something right.”
“No. No one did anything right.”
“Then why aren’t we dead?”
“Maybe the birds.”
“Maybe the wind.”
“Maybe her.”
“Maybe… not her.”
“The poet has come to save us from the same fate!”
“Maybe…”
“No—I think…”
“What if…”