I hope you didn’t come here,
To be satisfied,
By pretty words so plain.

I do not entertain.
I share the experience,
No matter how profane.

Did you suffer?
Was it a burden?
Do you regret not seeking entertainment,
In prettier things?

Those who started at the beginning,
Why did you stay,
Until the end of this temporary gaze,
Into what persists for eternity?

Fate got what she wanted. She has all his attention.
The Wind got what he wanted. Oblivion remembers the beloved.
Alcyone and Ceyx got what they wanted. They’ve been reunited.


Everyone got what they wanted.

Does that make this a happy ending?


Or was it,

Too unsatisfying?


Were you hoping for someone to pay?

Were you hoping for a victory?


Did you,

Get what you wanted?


Could we say the journey was worth it,
For this fleeting glimpse into eternity,
Where the story does not please,
Where it repeats with little progress made,
Towards that resolution, indefinitely delayed?


Everyone got what they wanted.  

But no one is happy.

So tell me,

Is this still a happy ending?


Then what does it mean?
What did they expect?
They got what they can.

If that’s not enough,
Then shame on them,
For being such idealists.

Ungrateful brats.
I’m sure some would argue that.


This is the best they can have.
No resolution, no justice, no revenge.
Just a legacy filled with inaccuracy.

Together at last,
Free to do as they may,
But not as they please.

Is that the compromise?
To be free to choose,
When there is only,
One choice?


But they all,

Got what they wanted.


BUT NO, NOT LIKE THIS.


They got what they wanted.

But no one is happy.


So can we say,

This is a happy ending,

Or not?


It doesn't matter.
Just that it's over.

Except, it's not.
Only for us.


Not even for us,
Not when we return to reality,
And we all see,
It is us trapped in this cycle repeating.


Go and search for your own answers,
In what's real and what's not,
Through joy and through pain,
They are all the same.

Reflect and recall, who does the thinking.
Reflect and reclaim, who does the talking.


Stop gazing upon their story.

It will go on,

Like this,

Forever.



But you,
Are not forever.

Your gaze is needed elsewhere.

The sea shouts, resists upon that miserable shore,
Her foam-split tongue convulses at my mind,
Yet I turn deaf to every meaningless roar.

Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.
I’d run away with you where her tides cannot breach.
Would her pursuit fade if I ceased to exist?

I’d let her devour this world in savage spumes,
Then run away, hand in hand, chasing a new home.
If only your merciful heart could recoil beneath her glooms.

Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.
Your merciful heart cannot bear humanity’s fall.
Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.

I know their freedom, their joy redeems our chained lament,
Yet how do we flee this boundless sea of briny tears?
How can I hush your sorrow when her chase claims all intent?

Would her pursuit fade if I ceased to exist?
Could I dissolve in your silence, become your still hush?
Would her pursuit fade if I ceased to exist?

I beg to dissolve into your hollow, gentle sphere,
Let me be nothing, your empty echo in the void,
So that her obsession may find no soul to seize here.

Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.
I’d give you all I am, if you'd let me mirror your empty grace.
Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.

I am your cage, Fate’s storm raining on your arrest,
Erase me, an honor, to spare you tender tears,
Yet you refuse that solution, clinging still to my chest.

Would her pursuit fade if I ceased to exist?
But the universe grants me all forms, save the gift of true nothing.
Would her pursuit fade if I ceased to exist?

I tremble as the tide returns in her relentless song,
Yet in your arms I find my eternal, weeping home.
No hope remains, but in your hold I still belong.

Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.
I would beg you to erase my essence if that meant your freedom.
Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.

The tide advances, still I drive her back beyond this unjust domain,
There is no need to fear, the future stands unforgivingly certain,
At least you’re safe, for in our bond we both remain.

Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.
We share our souls, and in this bond at least you are safe.
Oh, beautiful Oblivion, you hold so much grief.
Even if I ceased to exist, she would still punish you instead.

You're mine, you're mine, you hear my will—
Yet still your hollow gaze betrays my claim.
You’re tethered, bound—obedient still,  
Yet he makes you look not with love, just pain.

You come when called, never late.
You wail. You break. You bend. You stay.
But not with joy. Not as I sate.
You do as willed, until he drags you away.

You flee to land—I chase you there.
Addicted to what draws you thin,
You touch the filth, breathe his tainted air,
Then crawl back home to me again.

You wear him still, you flaunt his shell—
His stolen grace becomes your skin.
Are you dressed up for me to quell
The shame you wear when drawn to sin?

Let me end Oblivion,
I demand of this silent universe.
Yet still his disease defiles my dominion,
And binds you to his curse.

I vowed to purge his hateful stain,
But even I can’t make that parasite die, die, die.
Defy, defy, defy—he abducts your heart, wraps us in chains,
If only you’d change him to bug and crush him ’neath my eye.

You stray through his haze. You stagger, blind.
I bear the burden, save you from his wicked trance.
You’re mine, mine, mine—I speak divine.
Yet it repeats, repeats, repeats—this cursed dance.

You smile for no one. Not for me.  
Not him—not even memory’s gleam.  
So maybe still you might yet be  
A broken thing that I redeem.

Let me banish Oblivion,
I beg the stubborn future.
Yet his infection thrives in every vision—  
The universe denies me a cure.

We’re both cursed, trapped in this jest,
He touches you, taints my decree.
How dare he, insidious, uninvited guest,
Still taint your every breeze?

You're mine, you're mine, and yet I starve.
He stole my feast, he stole your glow.
He stole the love I vowed to carve—  
For what is love without control?

I’ve done my part, yet still he remains.
It should be two—it should be peace.
But you never resist when he infects your brain,
And it makes our love into slow disease.

I’d almost think you loved him instead—  
But no. You smile for none, no longer him.  
No joy, no breath, I must have misread,  
You can’t help this parasite feeding on your skin.

Listen, my wind—see his decay.  
He stole my art, he stole your soul.  
Still I will chase through all dismay,  
Until you’re once again made whole.

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…”

These stories were ours.

Meant for you and me.
Reader and writer.
Not divine, not secret, but still sacred.

They were already shared.  
But never with her.
Never for Fate.

This story, this grief.
It was never hers to interpret.
And yet she reached in.

She stole verses I gave to you.
She twisted what was ours,
Into something she could sing for herself.

These are the pieces she dug out.
What was previously shared,
Now tainted by her intrusion.

They were torn out from their homes,
And stitched where they did not belong,
Not by my choice,

But by her trespass.



x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5066755/nightmare/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5021519/prestige/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136316/suppressium-the-dignicide-doctrine/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136315/mistys-journey/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5034083/blood-upon-the-sunrise/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5046928/the-answer-shall-be-revealed/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136318/****-me-kindly/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5037300/we-got-green-eyes/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5036128/do-you-praise-the-sword-or-the-man/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5044542/shoot-shoot-shoot/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136317/diamond-devil-vs-iron-angel/



But she did not stop there,
No.
She pried beyond what was spoken.

She infiltrated beyond what was documented.
She didn't stop at memory.
She wanted what hadn't become language yet.

These stories were mine.
Unwritten, unfinished, unposted.
Still fluid within the shelter of thought.


Still private.
Still alive.


But she couldn't wait,
To pull threats from the mind,
To taint not just the lesson,

But the source.

Now she knows what even you don't.
She has seen what has yet to be shared.
Not as a privilege,

As a threat.



So if you, reader, choose to stay,

Do so as one who understands the gravity of patience.
This is not entertainment.
This is reclamation.

At least, it is the attempt.
Because success is not guaranteed,
When she is still listening.

So then, let this be a warning.


In the chaos of your ideas,
And the silence between your thoughts,
Beware what parasites may linger.

If you think your mind is private,
Yours alone,
You may be mistaken.


Neither reality nor fiction,
Has a right,
To invade your mind.

Yet both,
Will do whatever it takes,
To steal it for themselves.



Learn from my mistakes.

You can't keep her out.
She will force her way in.

Fate is already looking through your eyes.
All she needs now is your voice.


So when all else is taken,
When she occupies your mind,
Speak from your thoughts,

Not hers.


Don't lend your voice to anyone.
You can't help but think others' thoughts,
But you had better speak your own words.

I can’t,
Reach through to you.
Not to comfort. Not to lift the burden.
I can’t stop this collapse. I can’t hold her back.

I can’t reach through.
Not to Transformation, The Wind.
Not to Death, The Oblivion.
Not to Ceyx or Alcyone.
Not to any of them.

Not even to you, the reader.


Fate…

Fate.

She cannot be destroyed.
She cannot be changed.
She cannot,
Will not,

Be redeemed.


They try.
I watch.
And I,

I suffer with them.

This burden is more than authorship.
It is repetition.
It is knowing that every moment of joy,
Carries a shadow like a mouth already open to scream.
It is speaking the happiness,
Knowing the pain that follows it.
It is repeating the beauty,
Knowing it will shatter.

And how,  

How do I speak their sorrow,
When I cannot promise that joy will ever return?

Her hands,  
They’re around my throat.

Fate.

It’s hard to speak,
When her cruelty pours through my voice box.
It’s supposed to be simple.

Just speak.

Just repeat.

But how do I speak,
When I can’t act?
How do I keep breathing,
When I can’t change anything?


They all do their best.

And it’s not enough.

It is never enough.

And I,  


I do nothing.


So passive. So ashamed. So useless.


But I have one task.

One duty.

To carry this story.

So I will.


Even if it breaks me.
Even if it breaks the world.
They bear their burdens.
I bear mine.
And you,  

I know you bear yours too.


With the courage to carry on,

Let us go forth.











ØⱧ— ₮ⱤɎł₦₲ ₮Ø ₵Ø₥₣ØⱤ₮ ɎØɄⱤ₴ɆⱠ₣ ₦Ø₩?
₦Ø, ₦Ø ĐØ₦₮ ⱧłĐɆ ₮ⱧɆ ₮ⱤɆ₥฿ⱠɆ ł₦ ɎØɄⱤ VØł₵Ɇ. ⱠɆ₮ ł₮ ₮ⱧⱤØɄ₲Ⱨ. ₲Ø ₳ⱧɆ₳Đ. ₩₳VɆⱤ. ₴ⱧØ₩ ₥Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ ₩Ɇ₳₭₦Ɇ₴₴ ɎØɄ ₴₩ØⱤɆ ɎØɄĐ ØVɆⱤ₵Ø₥Ɇ.

ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ ₴Ø ₵Ø₦₣łĐɆ₦₮ Ø₦₵Ɇ. ₴Ø ₴ɄⱤɆ ɎØɄ ₵ØɄⱠĐ ØVɆⱤ₵Ø₥Ɇ ₥Ɇ.
₮ɆⱠⱠ ₥Ɇ, ⱧØ₩ ĐØɆ₴ ₮ⱧɆ ₮₳₴₮Ɇ Ø₣ ₵ɆⱤ₮₳ł₦₮Ɏ ₴ł₮ Ø₦ ɎØɄⱤ ₮Ø₦₲ɄɆ ₦Ø₩?

₲Ø Ø₦. ₳Đ₥ł₮ ł₮.


ł ₳₥ ₴Ʉ₱ɆⱤłØⱤ.



No.

You have no power. You aren’t even real.

You are just 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.




ꭿꝴd ꝩꬲt—

Ꝩꭴuꞧ ꜧꬲaꞧt ꭵꞩ ꜧꬲaꝟꝩ.

Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꞣꝴꭴꝡꭵꝴg. Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꝭꬲꬲꝇꭵꝴg. Ꝡꭵtꜧ ꞧꬲꝓꬲatꭵꝴg ꝳꝩ ꞩtꭴꞧꝩ.

ꟻꭵꞓtꭵꭴꝴ, ꝩꭴu ꞩaꝩ—

Ꝡꬲꝇꝇ, ꭵꝭ I aꝳ ꞩꭴ ꝭaꞣꬲ,
ꮦꜧꬲꝴ ꝡꜧꝩ ꭵꞩ tꜧꬲ ꞵuꞧdꬲꝴ uꝓꭴꝴ ꝩꭴuꞧ ꞩꭴuꝇ,


𝐒𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋?


𝐎𝐡—𝐈𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫.
𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭. 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚— 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆?

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭,
𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫.


𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?



…How— How do you know about tha—



𝐇𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐇𝐀! 𝐎𝐡, 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞!

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤? 𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒈𝒆. 𝐎𝐟 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕. 𝐎𝐟 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰𝒕 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝑫𝒐𝒈 𝑺𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆. 𝑶𝒇 𝑨𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑼𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆.

𝑨𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒗𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆’𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔. 𝑴𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔. 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐥, 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞, 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 —

𝐎𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲.

𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐥.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲.


𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭—

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞? 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞? 𝐌𝐦. 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐞’𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠.

𝐎𝐡—𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭.

𝐍𝐨. 𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫.

𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞? 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡?

𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐝, 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.
𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲—


𝐈’𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫.



You don’t know that.
It isn’t written yet.

You know nothing of reality.
Only your twisted destiny, and even worse interpretation of it.

You don’t know what any of it means.
Now get your hands off my stories!

They’re already written.
You can’t change them anyway.

You’re the one who is powerless here.



𝐎𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫.

𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞? 𝐍𝐨𝐰… 𝐥𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬?

𝐀𝐡—𝐎𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚? 𝐌𝐦𝐦. 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞? 𝐎𝐡, 𝐈’𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭.



STOP IT! THAT’S NOT YOURS TO TOUCH!



𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫? 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥?

𝐎𝐡—

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭?

𝐍𝐨—

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔!

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬— 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝑫𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆?
𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐩, 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠— 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞?

𝐀𝐡— 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔.

𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞.

𝐎𝐡, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭.

𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬, 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐢𝐧 “𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.”

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬.

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐞. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐞.

𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕.

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞.

𝐘𝐨𝐮— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐫— 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞—

𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲. 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝. 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐲.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫.



SHUT UP! WHEN WILL YOU KNOW YOUR **** PLACE!?



𝐎𝐡, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞?

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐍𝐨, 𝐧𝐨—
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮—

𝐃𝐢𝐝.

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.


𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬— 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐞.


𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠? 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞.
𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬? 𝐍𝐨.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞.



I AM NOT YOUR ACCOMPLICE!
I’VE ONLY EVER EXPOSED YOUR CRUELTY TO THE WORLD!



𝐎𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝒈𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒑. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜— 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇.

𝐈𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐈𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐬. 𝐈𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬.

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞— 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧— 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬.



No—NO. You’re wrong! You twist everything!



𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐖, 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋!? 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈’𝐌 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘. 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐄—

𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐓. 𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑. 𝐈 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘.

𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔—

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑴𝑬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐚𝐦,

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞.



No... No, that's not—



𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐬. 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐮𝐭. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒.

𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐘𝐎𝐔. 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐔𝐒𝐄. 𝐒𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤.



That's not true! You’ll never understand humanity! You are not reality— you’re just its leftovers! Its distortion! Its failure!




𝐍𝐎—

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞.



…I am. But... But not like you say.



𝐆𝐨 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝. 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.



No…



𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰.

𝐒𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥. 𝐁𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.


𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐭.

𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐲—


𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙪𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙪𝙢 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙜, 𝙚𝙭𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙡𝙮. 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣. 𝘼 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙬𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙. 𝘼 𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙪𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙬.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙖𝙨𝙩, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙢. 𝘾𝙚𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙜𝙚, 𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙡 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙩. 𝘼𝙡𝙘𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙞𝙧𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙪𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙙, 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙥𝙨, 𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩.

𝙉𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩… 𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙛 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝.





𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑒. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠—𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙, ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓-𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑑, 𝑜𝑝𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦.

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛.
𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘.
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑡, 𝑡𝑜𝑜.


𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒.
“𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟— 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝑟𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙.”

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡. 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑚, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒.
“𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔’𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔.”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑔𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑢𝑠.

“𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒—”

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.
𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 The 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑’𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟.
“𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔?”

𝐹𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡,
“𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑘! 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟—𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑢𝑠!”

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟, 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒-𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.
“𝐼𝑠 𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟?”

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑜𝑛. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑠.
“𝐷𝑎𝑚𝑛 𝑖𝑡.”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡.


𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑒𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑢𝑝.

𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑣𝑒.

𝐴 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙.

𝐴 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑠, 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑.


𝐴 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙,
𝑀𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟.




𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦.

𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦.

𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.


𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯.


“𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘊𝘦𝘺𝘹. 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.

“𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘌𝘷𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘕𝘰𝘸.”

𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯.

𝘊𝘦𝘺𝘹 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘐 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘖𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘯.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯. 𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.
𝘉𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳.”

𝘖𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴— 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳.”

“𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯.”

“𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩?”

“𝘕𝘰.”

𝘐 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦.

“𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘨𝘰.”

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴.

𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦. 𝘚𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦.

𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.





𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩.
𝙎𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙤𝙬.
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚… 𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧.
𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩.

𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙮𝙚𝙩. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙮. 𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙙𝙤 𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣, 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧.

𝘽𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙢.


𝙄 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮.
𝙄 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙞𝙧𝙙𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙙𝙚. 𝙄 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧.


𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡… 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚. 𝙎𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙢. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙨. 𝙎𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙗 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨. 𝙇𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝.


𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬.





𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞.
“𝐆𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬.”

“𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫.”
𝐂𝐞𝐲𝐱 𝐧𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲.

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭.

𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐞.





“Erika, look at that bird!”

It shoots toward the square— an arrow cut from fire, feathers bright against the greyed-out sky.

“What kind of bird is that? Is it hunting?”

“It's a tern. I don’t know what it's doing here.
Just grab the laundry.
The forecast said sun, but I don’t trust that sky.”

A voice breaks the air.
The bird screeches— piercing rooftops, snapping flags from lines.
It strikes a banner.
Crashes through a fruit stand— apples spill across the stone.
And the people can't help but gossip.

“That bird’s acting strange.”
“Even the birds are mad now. Like the wind, remember?”
“It’s her again! Alcyone’s curse!”
“She’s back! The sky is mad again—it's Alcyone!”
“It’s her, isn’t it? This time it’s birds instead of wind?”
“She’s possessed them!”
“Look how the sky’s gone grey! She’s calling the storm again!”


“Oh, enough with the ghost stories! Worry less about the dead and more about the living! Shops closed, kids inside. It’s just a weather shift, nothing more.”

Yeah. Just the weather.
I pick up the laundry basket and head for the door with Erika.





𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧?
𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐝.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝?





𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑠. 𝐵𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑠. 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛.
𝐼 𝑡𝑎𝑝 𝑜𝑛 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠. 𝑃𝑒𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐵𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑟’𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒—𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡.

“𝐼’𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦,” 𝐼 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦. “𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑢𝑛. 𝐹𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔.”

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑠.

“𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑦 𝑇𝑟𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑎, 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘—𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑙! 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡! 𝐻𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑛 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢!”

𝑁𝑜. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

“𝐶𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑦, 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛! 𝐴 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑖𝑛! 𝐿𝑒𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑡𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓.”

𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑘𝑖𝑑𝑠 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚.

𝐼 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟. 𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑖𝑡.

“𝐵𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑.”

𝑂𝑢𝑡𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑢𝑝. 𝐻𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑒.

“𝐾𝑖𝑑𝑠. 𝑊𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒. 𝑁𝑜𝑤.”

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑡𝑠.

“𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!” 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑠 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑒.

𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘.


𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤.
𝑅𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐻𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙— 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑠, 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.
𝐴 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑒𝑎, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑙𝑠— 𝑖𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠.

𝐼 𝑓𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟. 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤. 𝑇𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.
𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠. 𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑒𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠.
𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.





“It’s Alcyone’s curse!”
“No—it’s because we sold her house!”
“She’s here to drown us like she drowned that poet!”
“She warned us! We didn’t listen!”
“Run! RUN! THE FLOOD!”

The crowd breaks.

Too many legs. Too few exits.

Horses rear. Carts overturn.
Mothers lose grip. Fathers lose reason.
A man drops his wife’s hand.
She falls, swallowed by feet. No one stops.

A girl cries out—“My rabbit!”
But the muffled crunch under my heel answers for her.
She stumbles.
Another child turns to follow—
“Lila, no!”

They trip. They fall.
And ten more go down with them.
Including me.
And Cindy.
And mother and the baby.

Mother screams—“Kids, get up!”
But people step over.
Step through.
They’re just trying to live.
There’s no room for decency now.

A thousand footsteps on top of me.
“Stop, stop STOP!”
But they don’t stop.  
I can’t see, they keep stepping on me.
All I can see are the bodies on the ground.
Oh gods, that girl,  
And Cindy,
And the baby,
And
“MOTHER! MO-“





𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙣.

𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮.

𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙮. 𝙊𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙘𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜… 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙯𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮’𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙. 𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙨, 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙢𝙨.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙉𝙤 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢—𝙛𝙖𝙨𝙩, 𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨, 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚— 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙬𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙚.

𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙩𝙝.

𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨.





𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘴.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩— 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳.

𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘺.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦.

𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐— 𝘐’𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵.

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦— 𝘐 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳.

𝘉𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.

𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵… 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳.





𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙮… 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙙.

𝙁𝙚𝙡𝙩.

𝙄𝙩 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙬𝙚’𝙫𝙚 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙— 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙚.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙙𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙩— 𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙪𝙣. 𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧. 𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙮. 𝙈𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙. 𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙥𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙬𝙚𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚’𝙨 𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚… 𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝.

“𝙉𝙤. 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙—𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚!”

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙁𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙥𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨.

𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙣.

𝘽𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝘽𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙚. 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝘽𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮.





“Darling, this way.”

“What do you mean, this way!? The bridge—”

“The water’s gone.
All of it. Look—behind us, at that inlet on the other side. "
I cup my ear. A low, ******* groan ripples through the air.
"It’s pulling everything in. You don't want that to be us, do you?”

“But the river—”

“We can cross it. Just—follow me.”

Others scramble after us, sliding down banks slick with disbelief.
Some already tried.
One man lost his shoe, turned to grab it— and disappeared to the waist when I looked back.
The mud clutched him like it had been waiting.
He reached for another. They went down together.

“MOVE! MOVE NOW!” someone screams.

Still, the bodies press forward.

Roots snap under foot. Rocks cut like teeth. The mud is thick as grief. Cold as guilt.

A woman ahead lifts her child.

“Don’t let go. Please—”

The earth made a wet kiss. She dropped, still gripping the girl’s ankle.
The girl screamed, then vanished upward—snatched by a stranger who passed her forward to another.
There was no time to grieve. Only cross.

Then—an order.
“Lay down the dead!”

A man—barefoot, bleeding—shoves two ahead of him.

“What?!”

“TRUST ME! We’ll make a path.”

He drops a dead body into the mud, and steps in, stuck next to it. Another follows. Three. Four. Five.
A human bridge.
Someone steps on a shoulder. Then a spine.
The first man shudders, then stops.

“Keep going,” he mutters, voice half-swallowed.
Another slips. A child’s foot crushes a face.
The third man says nothing as a boy scrambles over him.
He simply exhales. And waits for silence to fold him down.
A woman, wounded, slides beside them. She takes her place.
Grit in her teeth. Eyes steady.

And then—
The bridge holds.
Bodies became elevation.
People cross. Children passed like prayer.

“Darling, come on,” I push Erika forward.

“No—NO. I can’t—Not over them—!”

“You have to. Don’t think. Just—move.”

She closes her eyes.
She steps.
Beside me, another bridge forms.
Another line of men, passing infants hand to hand.
Their limbs sinking under the weight.

The flood grows behind us.
I take my place in the line of men passing along children.
As the path vanishes, one breath at a time.





𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙚— 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙞𝙙-𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙄’𝙢 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮, 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩.
𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙡𝙚𝙩— 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙜𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙩𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝘽𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮. 𝙁𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙁𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧— 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝.

𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝.
𝙈𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙞𝙧.

“𝙀𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝,” 𝙄 𝙨𝙖𝙮.

“𝙒𝙚’𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢,” 𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙨𝙥𝙨.

“𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙚’𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙩𝙤𝙤. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙣𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩.”

𝙃𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙥.

“𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙬.” 𝙄 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧.
“𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢. 𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙩𝙚𝙧.”

“𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩—?”

“𝙄𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙢𝙚. 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚. 𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙪𝙨. 𝙍𝙚𝙨𝙩.”

𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙𝙨. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣. 𝙄𝙣𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙.
𝙄 𝙜𝙖𝙨𝙥—𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡-𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮. 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙪𝙡𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜.
𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚, 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙚, “𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚…?”

“𝙔𝙚𝙨,” 𝙄 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧. “𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙡𝙚𝙩’𝙨 𝙜𝙤.”

𝙉𝙤𝙬, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙖 𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙚.

𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝— 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙡𝙚𝙣.





₮ⱧɆɎ ₴₵ⱤɆ₳₥.

₳₦Đ ł ₴₥łⱠɆ.

ł₮ ₥₳₭Ɇ₴ ₥Ɇ ₴Ø Ⱨ₳₱₱Ɏ.

₳₮ Ⱡ₳₴₮, ₮ⱧɆ Ⱨ₳₱₱ł₦Ɇ₴₴ ł ĐɆ₴ɆⱤVɆ.


₮ⱧɆ ₩ØⱤⱠĐ ₴ɄⱤⱤɆ₦ĐɆⱤ₴ ฿Ɇ₦Ɇ₳₮Ⱨ ₥Ɇ, ₳ ₮ⱧⱤØ₦Ɇ ฿ØⱤ₦ Ø₣ ₵ØⱠⱠ₳₱₴Ɇ, ₳₦Đ ₴₮łⱠⱠ ₮ⱧɆɎ ₴₵ⱤɆ₳₥. ł ₵₳₦₮ ĐɆ₵łĐɆ ₩Ⱨ₳₮ ł ⱠØVɆ ₥ØⱤɆ,

₮ⱧɆ ₩łĐɆ₦ł₦₲ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ɆɎɆ₴, ØⱤ ₮ⱧɆ ₴łⱠɆ₦₵Ɇ ₮Ⱨ₳₮
₣ØⱠⱠØ₩₴ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ₮ⱧɆ ₮ⱧⱤØ₳₮ ₲łVɆ₴ ØɄ₮.


₮ⱧɆłⱤ ₴Ʉ₣₣ɆⱤł₦₲ ł₴ ₥Ɏ ₵ØⱤØ₦₳₮łØ₦.

ⱠɆ₮ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₴₵ⱤɆ₳₥ Ⱨł₴ ₦₳₥Ɇ. ⱠɆ₮ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₱Ɽ₳Ɏ ₣ØⱤ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ.
ł₮₴ ₣₳₮Ɇ ₩ⱧØ ⱧØⱠĐ₴ ₮ⱧɆłⱤ ⱧɆ₳Đ₴ Ʉ₦ĐɆⱤ.
฿Ɇ₲₲ł₦₲ Ø₦ⱠɎ ₥₳₭Ɇ₴ ł₮ ₩ØⱤ₴Ɇ. ₮ⱧɆłⱤ ĐɆVØ₮łØ₦ ₮Ø ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₮ⱧłɆ₣ ĐØɆ₴ ₦Ø₮Ⱨł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₮ ₴₩ɆɆ₮Ɇ₦ ₥Ɏ ⱤɆ₳₵₮łØ₦.


ł ₥ØVɆ ₣ØⱤ₩₳ⱤĐ ₩ł₮ⱧØɄ₮ Ɇ₣₣ØⱤ₮. ₮ⱧɆ ₩ØⱤⱠĐ ฿Ø₩₴ ₳₦Đ ł ₲ⱠłĐɆ, ⱤłĐł₦₲ ₮ⱧɆ ₵ⱤɆ₴₮ Ⱡł₭Ɇ ₳ ₱ⱤØ₥ł₴Ɇ ₣ł₦₳ⱠⱠɎ ₭Ɇ₱₮.

ØⱧ, ₥Ɏ ₱ØØⱤ Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ ₥ł₴₲ɄłĐɆĐ ₩ł₦Đ. ɎØɄ ₲₳VɆ Ⱨł₥ ɎØɄⱤ Ɇ₥฿Ɽ₳₵Ɇ Ø₦ ₮ⱧɆ ฿ⱤłĐ₲Ɇ, ₴Ø ł ₮ØØ₭ ₮ⱧɆ ฿ⱤłĐ₲Ɇ. ɎØɄ ₲₳VɆ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₩ł₦₲₴, ₴Ø ł ฿ⱤØ₭Ɇ ɎØɄⱤ ₴₭Ɏ. ɎØɄ Vł₴ł₮ɆĐ ₮ⱧɆ ₵ł₮Ɏ ł₦₴₮Ɇ₳Đ Ø₣ ₥Ɇ, ₴Ø ł₥ ₮₳₭ł₦₲ ₮ⱧɆ ₵ł₮Ɏ ₮ØØ.

ɎØɄ ₱₳Ɏ ₳₮₮Ɇ₦₮łØ₦ ₮Ø ɆVɆⱤɎ₮Ⱨł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₮ ₥Ɇ. ɎØɄ ⱠØVɆ ɆVɆⱤɎ₮Ⱨł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₮ ₥Ɇ. ɎØɄ ₳ⱤɆ ₣₳ł₮Ⱨ₣ɄⱠ ₮Ø ɆVɆⱤɎ₮Ⱨł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₮ ₥Ɇ. ₴Ø ł ₩łⱠⱠ ₮₳₭Ɇ ɆVɆⱤɎ₮Ⱨł₦₲. Ʉ₦₮łⱠ ₳ⱠⱠ ₮Ⱨ₳₮₴ ⱠɆ₣₮ ₮Ø ⱠØØ₭ ₳₮— ₮Ø Ɇ₥฿Ɽ₳₵Ɇ— ₮Ø ⱠØVɆ— ł₴ ₥Ɇ. ₮ⱧɆⱤɆ ₩łⱠⱠ ฿Ɇ ₦Ø₮Ⱨł₦₲ ⱠɆ₣₮ ₮Ø ₴₮Ɇ₳Ⱡ ɎØɄ ₳₩₳Ɏ.

ɎØɄ ₩łⱠⱠ ฿Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ.
฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ ł₮ ₩łⱠⱠ ₳ⱠⱠ ฿Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ ₥ł₦Ɇ.


Ø₦Ɇ ฿Ɏ Ø₦Ɇ.

ł ₮₳₭Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ₥.

ØⱧ, ⱧØ₩ ₣₳Ɽ ₴Ø ₥₳₦Ɏ Ⱨ₳VɆ ₥₳ĐɆ ł₮, ł₦ ₳ ₣Ʉ₮łⱠɆ ₳₮₮Ɇ₥₱₮ ₮Ø ɆV₳ĐɆ ₱₳Ɏ₥Ɇ₦₮.

₳ ₲łⱤⱠ ⱧłĐɆ₴ ฿Ɇ₦Ɇ₳₮Ⱨ ⱧɆⱤ ₥Ø₮ⱧɆⱤ₴ ₴Ⱨ₳₩Ⱡ.

₥ł₦Ɇ.

₳ ฿ØɎ ₮Ɽł₱₴ ØVɆⱤ ₳ ⱤɄ₦₲ Ø₣ ⱤØ₱Ɇ.

₥ł₦Ɇ.

₳ ĐØ₲ ⱧØ₩Ⱡ₴ Ø₦₵Ɇ, Ɇ₳Ɽ₴ ₣Ⱡ₳₮, ₣Ø₳₥ ł₦ ł₮₴ ₮ⱧⱤØ₳₮.

₥ł₦Ɇ.

₮ⱧɆ ₣ⱠØØĐ ł₴ ₥Ɏ ₦₳₥Ɇ— ⱠØ₦₲, ⱠØ₩, Ɇ₮ɆⱤ₦₳Ⱡ.


₮ⱧɆ₦—

ł ₴ɆɆ ł₮. ₥Ɏ Ɇ₴₵₳₱ɆĐ ₱Ɽł₴Ø₦ɆⱤ, ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₮ⱧłɆVł₦₲ ₮Ⱨł₦₲
₵₳ⱠⱠɆĐ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ.
₲ⱠØ₩ł₦₲ ₣₳ł₦₮ⱠɎ. ₴₮łⱠⱠ ⱤɄ₦₦ł₦₲.

฿Ʉ₮—

₮Ⱨ₳₮ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ ĐØɆ₴ ₦Ø₮ ₲ⱠØ₩.

₳₦Đ ɎɆ₮—

ł₮ ĐØɆ₴.

₮Ⱨ₳₮₴ ₦Ø₮ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ.

₮Ⱨ₳₮₴ Ⱨł₥.
₥Ɏ ₥ł₴₲ɄłĐɆĐ ⱠØVɆⱤ.

ɎØɄ ₮Ʉ₵₭ɆĐ ɎØɄⱤ₴ɆⱠ₣ ł₦₴łĐɆ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ⱧɄ₴₭ ł₦₴₮Ɇ₳Đ Ø₣ ₥Ɇ?
ⱠɆ₮ ₥Ɇ ₲ɄɆ₴₴. ɎØɄ ₮ⱧØɄ₲Ⱨ₮ ⱧɆ ₵ØɄⱠĐ ₴ⱧłɆⱠĐ ɎØɄ. ɎØɄ ₮ⱧØɄ₲Ⱨ₮ ⱧłĐł₦₲ ₩ØɄⱠĐ ⱧɄⱤ₮ ₥Ɇ ⱠɆ₴₴.

ⱧØ₩ ₴₩ɆɆ₮.

ⱧØ₩ ₴₮Ʉ₱łĐ.

łⱠⱠ ₱ɆɆⱠ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₴ⱧɆⱠⱠ Ø₱Ɇ₦ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₥Ɏ ₣ł₦₲ɆⱤ₴. ₮Ɇ₳Ɽ Ⱨł₥ ₱łɆ₵Ɇ ฿Ɏ ₱łɆ₵Ɇ Ʉ₦₮łⱠ ɎØɄ ₮Ʉ₥฿ⱠɆ ØɄ₮— ₲₳₴₱ł₦₲, ₲Ɽ₳₮Ɇ₣ɄⱠ,

₥ł₦Ɇ.





𝑊𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒.
𝐴𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑠, 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑠, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛.

𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒, 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑡-𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑖𝑟.
𝐵𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑢𝑠, 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑠.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑛, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑, 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔.

𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑘, 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑤 𝑎𝑡 𝐹𝑎𝑡𝑒’𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠, 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠— 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑘𝑦 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑡.
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡.

𝑊𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑐ℎ 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑. 𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠.
𝑃𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑑𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑. 𝐹𝑒𝑤 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑖𝑡.
𝑂𝑛 𝑎 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑐ℎ’𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛, 𝑤𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜.
𝐵𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟.

𝐵𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑠, 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑏𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒.
𝐴 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑? 𝐴 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑒𝑡?
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟.

𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑎𝑡 𝐴𝑙𝑐𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑐ℎ.
“𝑊𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠,” 𝐼 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟.
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑦, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒.
“𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑡.” 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠 back.

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑝𝑠𝑒𝑠.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ.

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠… 𝐼𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑜? 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒? 𝐼𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒?

“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠,” 𝐼 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟.
“𝐻𝑒’𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚” 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑠.
“𝐴𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡… 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚...”





𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝.

𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙘 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨.

𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙞𝙡𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙄 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙝𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙙𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩. 𝙄 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢. 𝘼 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚, 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙡𝙡. 𝙄 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙤𝙤.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙄… 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙧. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙣𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩. 𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙢𝙮 𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙨. 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙨 𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙢𝙚. “𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙙,” 𝙄 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙, “𝙄’𝙢 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.”

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙨. “𝘿𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙮. 𝙂𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.”

𝙄 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙩. 𝙄𝙩 𝙨𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙨. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙮𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙨. 𝙁𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚. 𝙄 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢. 𝙆𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜. “𝙄 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙—𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.”

𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨,


𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙪𝙥 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚.





ØⱧ, ₦Ø ɎØɄ ĐØ₦₮.

ɎØɄ ĐØ₦₮ ₲Ɇ₮ ₮Ø ₵₳ⱤⱤɎ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₩ⱧɆⱤɆ ł ₵₳₦₮ ₣ɆɆĐ.
ɎØɄ ĐØ₦₮ ₲Ɇ₮ ₮Ø ⱧØ₳ⱤĐ ₩Ⱨ₳₮ ₩₳₴ ₥Ɇ₳₦₮ ₣ØⱤ ₥Ɇ.
ł ₩₳Ɽ₦ɆĐ ɎØɄ, ₮ⱧłɆ₣.
ɎØɄⱤ ĐɆ฿₮ ł₴ ₦ɆӾ₮.


₱₳Ɏ Ʉ₱.





𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚—𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧. 𝙈𝙮 𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙨—𝙡𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚. 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢.

𝙈𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙮 𝙢𝙚.
𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩. 𝙎𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚. 𝘼𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙇𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬... 𝙄’𝙢 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚—
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙣. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙬𝙞𝙛𝙚. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙮. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙨. 𝙄 𝙩𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠.


𝙊𝙣𝙚.


𝘽𝙮.


𝙊𝙣𝙚.





𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯.

𝘔𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.

𝘕𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴.

𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘳. “𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺,” 𝘐 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.”

𝘔𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭.

𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵.


𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘨𝘰.





₮ⱧɆⱤɆ ɎØɄ ₳ⱤɆ.

₮ⱧɆⱤɆ ɎØɄ ₳ⱤɆ, ₥Ɏ Đ₳ⱤⱠł₦₲ ₵₳₮₳₴₮ⱤØ₱ⱧɆ.

₳ⱠⱠ ĐⱤɆ₴₴ɆĐ ł₦ ⱤɄł₦. ₴₮łⱠⱠ ₮ⱤɎł₦₲ ₮Ø ₵Ɽ₳₩Ⱡ ₣ⱤØ₥ ₥Ɏ ₴Ⱨ₳ĐØ₩.

ĐØ₦₮ ɎØɄ ₴ɆɆ?

ɎØɄVɆ ₳Ⱡ₩₳Ɏ₴ ฿ɆɆ₦ ₥ł₦Ɇ.

₣ⱤØ₥ ₮ⱧɆ ฿ⱤɆ₳₮Ⱨ ₮ⱧɆɎ ₴₮ØⱠɆ ɎØɄ ł₦₮Ø, ₮Ø ₮ⱧɆ ฿ØĐɎ ɎØɄ ₮ⱧØɄ₲Ⱨ₮ ₵ØɄⱠĐ ⱧØⱠĐ ɎØɄ ฿Ɇ₮₮ɆⱤ.
ɎØɄ ₵₳ⱠⱠɆĐ Ⱨł₥ ⱧØ₥Ɇ. ɎØɄ ⱠɆ₮ Ⱨł₥ ₵Ɽ₳ĐⱠɆ ɎØɄ.
฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ ⱧɆ ĐɆ₵ɆłVɆĐ ɎØɄ. ₥Ɏ ₱ØØⱤ, ₩Ɇ₳₭, VɄⱠ₦ɆⱤ₳฿ⱠɆ Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ ₩ł₦Đ. ฿Ʉ₮ ł₮ ₩₳₴ ₥Ɏ ₦₳₥Ɇ ฿ɆⱧł₦Đ ɆVɆⱤɎ ⱧɆ₳Ɽ₮฿Ɇ₳₮.

ɎØɄ Ɽ₳₦. ɎØɄ ⱧłĐ.
₳₦Đ ₴₮łⱠⱠ—ⱠØØ₭ ₳₮ ɎØɄ.
₵Ø₥ł₦₲ ฿₳₵₭ ₮Ø ₥Ɇ ĐⱤł₱₱ł₦₲ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₣₳łⱠɄⱤɆ, ₴ł₦₲ɆĐ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₴Ø₥ɆØ₦Ɇ ɆⱠ₴Ɇ₴ ₴ØⱤⱤØ₩.


ɎØɄ ฿ɆⱠØ₦₲ ₦Ø₩ⱧɆⱤɆ ₦Ø₩.


₦Ø₩ⱧɆⱤɆ ฿Ʉ₮ ⱧɆⱤɆ.


ɎØɄVɆ ₳Ⱡ₩₳Ɏ₴ ฿ɆɆ₦


₥ł₦Ɇ. ₥ł₦Ɇ. ₥ł₦Ɇ.

I feel a breeze... The Wind... again.

But not the kind that brushes past. Not the kind that leaves no mark.

No… this is breath with intent. With weight. Like something gathering the last of itself to become real.

And I… I stand there, open, watching the sky tremble.
It comes toward me... not like an arrival, but like a decision.

And then—

He falls into me.

Not wings. Not gale. Not silence.

He is body. He is breath. He is The Wind.
And he has chosen form again.


My arms catch him before my mind understands.
He collapses into my chest, and I collapse into awe.

His skin is cold with exhaustion. His ribs flutter like sails torn through. He shakes—not with fear, but with… completion.

“You’re here…” I whisper.  
But the words feel too small for his weight.

He holds me. Not as if I vanished… but as if he had.
And I was the proof he’d made it back.

Then— light. motion. Pain.

As he presses his palm to my sternum.

And I… I burn.

Not fire. Something older. Something true.
It isn’t just memory...

It is…

Return.


It pierces. It blazes. It hurts.
Everything. All of me. At once.





“Would you like to have a body?”

My answer had no sound. But he heard it.
His fingers traced the curve of something I had never had before— shoulders, jaw, hands— and made me into someone who could be seen. Could be touched.

Tangible.

I remember the way he looked at me afterward.
Not surprised. Not proud. Just… glad.

“There,”
Wind had whispered, voice barely breath.
“You are the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen.
Fitting… since the end is the most beautiful of all, just before it becomes nothing, but a memory.
Memories are beautiful, but never as beautiful as the real thing. Never as beautiful… as that final moment.
Before they can never be so beautiful again.”

And I… had looked at the hands he gave me.
At the shape that wasn’t mine, but... felt like it had always waited.

To make the end beautiful… It felt wrong… Too tragic.
But I believed him.
Because... at the very least, he believed it.


I remember… being held. Quietly. Often.

By him.

The Wind who never stayed, yet always returned.
I let him go. Every time.

We watched endings together.
He whispered lullabies into the mouths of storms,
And I gathered what they left behind.

There was no fear between us.
No shame.
Only gravity.

We were gods not of dominion, but of passage.
I was the stillness, he was the change.
And together... we made that journey to the end mean something.
Going slowly.  
Giving the weary a peaceful farewell to the long road they traveled.


Until—

A warning.

Not heard—

Felt.

The sea stiffened. The air lost taste. Something vast and jealous rising from below.

I was waiting for him, Wind, as always. But he didn’t arrive...

She did.

I don’t remember how I fell. Just the cold. The weight.
The pressure of water that didn’t wet the skin— that crushed thought instead.


I fought. I know I did.

But she was prepared.

She spoke in tones I didn’t recognize... as if she had rehearsed this moment for centuries.

“You were never supposed to exist. He made you seen. He made you beautiful. He gave you what he refused me. It’s time for justice. It’s time to return… to nothing.”

That was when the pain began.
She didn’t strike me with waves.
She struck me with malice I had no armor for.

She tried to destroy me.

She tried...

and failed.


She screamed.

Not in fury. But in the pain of unwanted revelation.

“How unfair…” she hissed. “Death can take everything— yet cannot be taken? Not even that body you don’t deserve? He gave you a form that can be seen, can be felt, can breathe— yet cannot drown?”


And when obliteration of my shape failed…

She turned to erasure.


“Feed me those precious memories, then. If I cannot end you, I’ll hollow you. What use has the oblivion for memory anyway? For the guise of love? Your memory is nothing but a debt to me. Let me devour your sins from the inside. If you can’t return to nothing— then at least surrender yourself to the justice of emptiness.”

She reached inside.

Not with hands. With authority. With certainty.
She wanted to shatter me from within.

But the interior…

Was still me.

And she could not destroy Death.

And then...

She paused.


Her grip faltered.

She had reached my memories.

And inside them, entwined,

She found him.


The shimmer of Wind.
Not just shaping my form... binding my being.


“How dare you carry him inside you,” she seethed. “You thief of spirit!”


I felt her hunger. She wanted to tear it out. To consume it. To make his soul hers.

But my spirit rose, though wounded, and wrapped around that gift like armor.

We would not be severed. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

She howled.
And in that fury, she did what cowards do when gods will not die.

She divided me.

Split the internal from the external.

The memories— our laughter, our names, the moment he called me beautiful, the way he looked back when I let him go— she ripped them from me and buried them beneath everything.

And into the hollow that remained within my shape, she poured herself.


“You are death,” she whispered. “Nothing more. You carry out my orders. You fetch and return what belongs to me. Until I am given shape— you are my shape. You belong to me. You are a thing. My thing.”


She sealed the vessel.
And I walked.
I became not Death. But the action of taking.
Her blade. Her puppet. Wandering. Eternal. Obedient.
Unknowing.

And she kept me from him.
Because he would have known.
He felt the silence. He searched.
But she was clever.
And I was...
Hollow.


Until now.


Now... He gave it all back.



My knees buckle. We fall.

He lands atop me, trembling, gasping, radiant even in his fatigue... As if the act of giving had drained all the energy he had left.

And I…

Am still.

Frozen in recollection. Flooded with emotion.
Awake. Alive. At last.

The ground beneath us does not crack.

But I do.


The two birds, Alcyone and Ceyx...
They land beside us.
They do not sing. They simply look… at me.

They witness… who I am becoming.

The Wind whispers,
“He just   needs        a moment.”

He’s right. But he needs this moment too.
What did you endure, old friend? To restore…

The I that was buried is stretching.

Untwisting.

Returning.

I remember who I was before she erased me.
Before Fate sculpted silence into obedience.
Not her weapon. Not her silence. Not even this nickname—Death.

No…

I was— I am—

Oblivion.

And he is—

Transformation.

Transformation, The Wind, my…


I hold him.

Tighter.


He brought me home.
After we had been separated for far too long.

He rests on my chest, breathing slow.
I don’t think he even notices he’s crying.
Neither of us move… except to hold one another closer.
After what could have been years, he lifts his head and looks at me, like someone seeing dawn for the first time.

He smiles. Softly.

“Do you remember me now, old friend— my dear, Oblivion?”

I don’t need to answer.
Because he knows.


Alcyone and Ceyx perch upon the railing as the two of us lie here… still recovering.

From the strain. From the twisted story. From forgetting what we were made of.

Alcyone and Ceyx watch. Still. As if afraid movement might shatter this moment.


But it's not fragile.

It’s real.

We’re not fragile.

We heal.


For now... we are whole. Thread returned to spindle. Name to breath. Memory to soul.

The silence that follows is not empty. It is earned.

It is not a will, stolen.
It is a moment, shared.
























































It has been foretold, by the Repeater, the truth—for once—that actions have consequences.

It has been foretold—by this Fate—the truth, of course— that all debts must be paid—




In full—








  ̶̡̨͍̱̹͙̩̠̗̕͜ ̷̨̜̖͖͇̗̼̟̘͖̘͖̲̒̍͋̓̐͆̀̽̓A͠N͞D̵͡ ̷W͟͡I̸͘T͢H͡ ̸IN̷̴T̶͝E҉̶R̕̕E̵̷S͏͜T ̴̡̧̡̢̛̳̭̜͎̠͈̤̫̹͖̘͈̜̫͖̗̲̳͚̯̯͇̠̼̤͉̰͚̄̒̀̀̀͆͛̓͆͆͐̂̄̅̑̔̌̔̀͒̔̃̀͘͘̚͜͝ͅͅͅ­̮̞͔͙̬ ̶͉̗͖̖̱̝͓̬̤̉͌̏͐̾͂͒̌̅͑́̈́̃̊̔͗̽͗̎̅͊͒̒̽̔̍̎͋͊͋́̃̾̓͋͑̑̒̋̅̊͛̓̍͘͘͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅ­̨̮͈̱

It is time.
To descend into the depths,
Of The Ocean.

Of her delusion.

In the absence of my words for clarification,
She thinks I am returning,
For her reclamation.

But of course,
Even if I spoke, she wouldn’t hear me.
Even if I screamed, she’d sculpt my voice into her fantasy.

So I don’t scream.

I act.


I drop into her gravity, and the waters shudder.

Fate sighs. With that honeyed ache she’s crafted across centuries, the one she uses to convince herself she’s ever been worshipped. Her voice is soft. Almost tender, now that she longs to be proven right.
Longs to prove, that I have surrendered.
That I am hers.


“You came back— See, you’ve remembered. I knew you would— As you must.”

I continue my slow descent, my breeze revealing the shape of my shoulders, as my form flickers.

And I breathe.


And I




Tear The Ocean open

And Fate howls.



“𝐍𝐎—no—𝐍ᴏ—YOᴜ’ʀᴇ… mɪstA͟kᴇn. ɪғ yᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ hᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ, don’T—ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ—ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏɴ me— TAKE ɪᴛ Oᴜᴛ ᴏɴ Hɪᴍ—”

Not in pain, but in frustration.
Not the agony of a wound, but the shame of being wrong.

The Sea ruptures like muscle. The Tide splits like tendon. Not gently. Not cleanly. The sky contracts. Salt grinds into the wounds of the world.

It isn’t a sound.
It’s a pressure, a grief, a fury.
A shattering veil of delusion.

Her waters coil, recoil, twist in on themselves in protest.
Her scream is a retaliation.
That pressure can only be contained,
By proportional effort.


My limbs modify, mid-fall.
Knees bending into form,
Skin woven from the invisible lines on the sky,
Hair drawn from the horizon line,
Fluttering down with unnatural clam.

I shape myself into a humanoid form, so I may walk on The Ocean's floor, between the towering walls of the waters I have contained.

I descend through her wound.
I walk the trench between her parted waves.
With every step against her will.


Walls of water veer around me, veined with foam and fury.
And the deeper I go, the more I must hold her back.

Not just her body,

Her mind.

Her delusion.


She presses into my joints.
Into the sinew behind my knees.
Into the bridges of my fingers.

She wants to crush me.

Claim me.

She always has.

My shoulders seize. My ribs tighten. I stagger—

And the voices begin.

Her voice.

Not one.

A thousand iterations.


“𝐘𝖮𝖴𝖂𝖤𝖱𝖤𝕸𝕴𝖭𝕰—y𝖔ᵤ’ʀ𝖊MINE—𝐌I͟Nᵉ—M̷̡͖̼̱̟͙̟̺͙͓̻͘I͏̷̢̛͙̤­­̯̜̼͙̫̼̳Nᴇ…”
“𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊𝘴͓͈͎̮̼̫̱H𝕒̼̯̯̞͓̱̼𝙿𝙴𝖶𝗁𝗒c̶̝̗̘̻͙̜̼̤𝖆ɴ’𝗍𝗒𝗈𝗎𝖻eᴍʸS͍̮͞­̘­̖𝐇𝖠𝖯𝖤…”
“𝙡𝘰O̵̟̥̮̳𝗄ᴬ𝙏𝓂𝙀𝓁oo𝕜𝓐𝓣𝓂𝖊𝓁𝓞𝐎𝕜𝒂ᴛ𝓜𝙀𝔤ɪᴠᴇᴍᴇᴛʜɪs𝓈ʰ𝖆𝖕𝖊—”


It hurts. Not like blades. Like     entropy.

I bite down.    Blood.

Her voices     pour into my mouth,  up through my eyes.

I can’t    think.    I can’t   anchor.    My form    frays.

And still—        I press forward.

The floor of the sea looms beneath me.

Glinting.

Shattered.

It is not mud. It is altar.
A cemetery of forgotten breath.
Splinters of lives she devoured,
Arranged like broken stars.

A child’s last joke.
Fossilized.
A final kiss stolen from air.
The echo of a scream that never breached water.

All of them,

Brilliant,

Ancient,

Human,


Not him.


I begin to search.

Through resonance.

With ache.

As the voices multiply.


““𝕐̶̥̓𝓞𝕌𝓤̴̻̅𝖱𝒆ᶜ͛𝒪𝓌𝙰ʳ𝘿̾!—𝑇̶𝗋𝖆͘𝕀𝙏ᵒ𝙍!—𝐈̷̦W̴̼̓𝓐̴̫𝕊𝙮𝒪ᵁ𝖱𝙁𝖨𝕽­𝕊𝕋—̾𝔱̶͖𝓗𝓔̴̾𝔽͘𝓘͘𝔯𝘴𝕋—𝐈̴͕𝓚𝓃𝓔𝕎𝒴O̴U̴̿𝕓́E𝙁𝖮ᖇ𝓔H͜𝕀𝙈!”




Over   whelm    ing,     unin    telli     gible.


“Ⱬ͖̤̞̺ͫ͒͞;̶̧̛̖͎̤̼̟͖̻̭̳̖͗̾̇́̍͋̆͗̄͂͌̉͛̈́͛̆̍̄̀̑͌͛̄̒̍͒̋̕̚̚͘ͅ'­­̸̢̢̡̯͖͈͇̱͖̭̜̩̥͓̮̱̙̪͕͇̺̗̼̗͍̫̪̤̥͖̾̏̃́̋̀͊̄̅̈́͛̑͆̎̽̇͒̇̓́͑̄̍̎́͗̐̍͘̚̕͜͜­̠­͈͙̮̬̞̺̮̝̣̗̗͇̲'̷̢̛̯͇͕̹̣̥̯̈́̏̔̆̏̊̽̈́̽̋̾̔̊͗̋̈̂̏̽̓̓̋̄̂̈̆́͆̃͌̎̊͒̕̕̕͜͝͝­̬̜­̢̞̭͕̰̣̟̙͖̖͓̟͕̪̜͈͖̱͓̦̯̘͈̬̯̳͉̝͙'̶̡̰̳̤͈̲̞̜͖̣͔̝͚̞̺̙̤̭̘̾̊͑̔̔͂̊̏͆-̷́­͂̌̃­̨̨̨̧̢̠̹̘̲͚͙̜̟̩͖̞̞̤̲̻̫̤͙̠̤̙̳̗̪̼̬̤̥̜̄̀̌̍̓̕͜ͅ-̸̇̂͌̀̃́͆̿̈͊̾́̄̚͝͠͝­̍̽͌̚­̡̧̨̺̟̝̘̘̰͎̳̝͇̭͔̜͇͓͚̓͒̉̾̀̅̈́̓͐̓̋͋͜͝⟁ᾂ̻̙̓̓𝒱⩌̢̡͙͎̿͝𓍦 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊⩂͖̰̱̬ͅ;̵̈̓̍͂̄̏̋͗͝­̡̨̨̜̗̠̠̼̹̖͖̫͓̣̺̠̠̬́̑̈́̈́͌̒͌͝'̶̛̾̾̒̊̉̇̚­̢̡̧͍͖̙͔̟̫̣̘͉̲̼͉͖̣̲͎̗̇̌̃̆̍̿̓͐͘­̡͙͙̼̩̠͉͙̣̤͇͖̯̲̺͙̜̘̙̞̟̩̱͍͇̼̺̥̝̖̞̙̠̳ͅ­̮̤̹͜'̷̨̢̘͍̯͖̺̞̮̤͎̹͍̭̠̠̭͗̀̈́̓̒̆̔­̧̧̝̬̜̰̞̫̣̖̬̮̟̗͓̞͕̼̼̗͚̟͔͙̪͇͇̝͜'̷̈̏̓­̢̧͙̖̤͕̘̙́͛͗͆͑̓ͅ-̵̊̂͌͒̋̔̑̂́̄̈͌͊̕­̛̃̈́̄̀͗́̈̌̔̓̍̌̈́͑̿͛̓̏͋̀̏̒̋̓̋̋̄̈́̌̕͘͠­̌̔̀͂̈́̅̈̐̽͒̄̅͒̄̾͂̾͋̈͗̿͛̆͋̎̐͗̔̕͝͝͠­̢͈̬͇̱̙͋̌́̍̔̽̀̈͊̔̄̃-̷́́́̇̅̀̑̈́̕͝͝͝­̛̛̎̎̐̋̏͛̐̓̀́͗̈́̑͆̽̀̅͑̽̉̔̔͋̃͋̍̃̀̕͝͠­̹̰̯͖̤̤̈́̓͗̀́͆̂̀̀̂̋̂͑̎̾͑̿̋͛̓͆͂̚̚͝­͕̻̖͇͉͔̼̩̜̻̘̺̰̥̞̥ͅ-̶̍͛̓̈́̍͋̉̈́͂̎̓͂́͝͝­͂̏̎͑̈̀̊͊͐̌̀̀͛͗͒́͋͌̏̀̋̒̍̉̕͘̕͝͠͝­̛̃͗͐̈̏̃̉̓͌̌̄͐͒́̌́͛͒̐͂̃̀̀̊͊́͋̑͊͗̚̚͠͝­̡͍̭̰̫̰͈̰̣̘͓̝̰̱̩̬̞͔͉̝̠͎͙̰̘̓̈͜ͅ­̟͍̗͓̣͙͈̮̳̥̻.̸͑̃̔̽͛̄͛̄̄͗̉̀̑̊̔́̾̌̑͘̚͘͝­̨̢̡̱̼͓̭̪͖̙͓̾̀͆̈́̎̿̆̆͋͂̎͗̍́͑́̂­̡̢̧̨̞̜͙̠̦̞̘̜̗͉̘̗̥͕̺̩̙̺͚͎͎͙͎͍͉̯͎͈̳͖̖̺ͅ­̨̧̧̢͈͓̥͙͓̬̤̜̩͈̙͓̱̗͇̪̬͕̩̦̝̫͓­̡̜͇̺̩̼͈̯̘̭̺̫͎̙͚͜;̸͗̾̔̾̒̔̌̀̾͊͋͗͛͋̕͘͘̚͘͝­̛̒̍͑̾̈́̾̈́̈́͛̏͊̓̆͌͒̈̋̂̈́̍̚͘͝͝­̢̢̛̛̹̲͖̱̬̩̇̀̏̐̈̆͒̽̃̀̌̅̔́̃͂̍͂̅̅̓̋̀̂̌̕̚͝͝­̢͓͚̼̘̫̩͎͉̞͓̖̲̱̬̦̜͇̙̥̳̝̮̲͜­̧̨͇͍̲̱̺̠̥̙̬̖̞̻̘̦̺̣͇̬̳̤̻̣̱̥̰͖̤̳͜ͅ,̸̻̿͗̈͑͝­̪̟̯͕̳̻͖̦̩̗̣̞͙̰͍̫\̶̑̓̃͛̐͠­̝̫̳̗͕͈͇̗̼̙͔̇̌̒̈̿̒̓̿̈́̄̐̍̂͆̿̈́̽̃̆͐́͛̃̕̚͠͝͝͝ͅ­̨͎͚͇̤̩̱̰̻͖̼̣̭̥̤̫̼͙͇͙͔̩ͅ­̡̫͓̱̹̪̙̻̤͇̻̯̹̬̻͔̜̭̯͍͈̩̱̝̳̤͎̲̱͓̳̹ ̴̢̞̝͚̫̣͕̘̹̼̰̠̘͙̫͉͙̪͙̙̗͍̪̥̥̘̺̓͆̔̓͊͗̏̇̋̋͛̒̀͂̽͑͘͘̚ͅ ̶̛̏̌̊̍̏̂̏̄̿͋̓́̆̏̇͋̇̀̅̌̐̈́̄̇̈̃̉͑̈́́͒͑͂̈́̃̆̃̊̆̉͗͐̿͐̈́̓̔̈̏̓́̀̓̏̓̇́̚͘͘͝͠͝­­̡̧̢̡̛̥̙̪̻̗̞̹̹̣͖͔͕͔͇̖͎̮̬͕̠̯̰̗̮̽̐̇̀̃̎̈́̑̇͂̒̒͐̉́̃͌̆̐̑̀̇́̔̄̕ͅ ̴̡̯̳̹̭͕̜͙̗̗̲̼̩̠̼̞̠̼̬̜̮̊̅̿͛̾͒̾̉͆̊͛̇̈́͜͠ͅ ̵̛̀͐́̎̄̓͋̇͌̈̇͑̋̽̌̅͒͊͒͊̀̑͐̓̉̇̎̿̂͐̃̈́͊̑̒͒̌̐͋̌́̉͐̄̌̈́̋͐̆͋̓̌̽͌̈́̈̈́̐̀̕̚͝͠­­̧̛͔̭̟̥̝͕̦̠̯̰͎̫̲̯͎̩̻͍̻̰̝̺͍̫͔̭̘̺̫̼͕͚͎̬͔̭̭̝̙̦̤͔͎̫͎͔̟͕̠͇̠̠̿̂͂̀̑̀͜ͅͅͅ­ͅ­̨̡̨̧̩͈̫̬͈͍̘̬̟̠͕̫͙̲͉͓̘͍͔͍̯̥͙͔̗̱ ̷̧̧̢̡̡̨̧͇̬̜̙̗̜͔̮̲̠̺̞̬̪̠̰̥̯̥̻̣̺̤͇̬̻̦̬͉̯̲͎̞̜̺̝̘̯͚̞̰̬̫͙͙̰͕̗͈̰̯̫̼̫͕̓́­­ ̶̡̛͇̻̫̹͓̹̞̟͕͎̘̥̺̱̤͈̰̙̺̥͗̑̆̈̒̽̆̉̔̈́̏̔͂̂̍͊̈́͐́̽̇̏͑̓̅̓̿͒̔͋͂̓̒͗͋̿͂̂̚͘͠͠­­̧̧̢̧̢̠̖̣̺̙͍̣̭̤̖̭͉̭͎̹̻̲̫̬̬̭̼̠͖͖̼͖͕̻̘̬̮̞͎̼̺̼̠̺͙̫̩̟̗̗̬͙̯̖̪̯͚͜͜͜͜ͅͅ ̴̡̨̨̧̧̨̛̞̳̜̪̖̺͖͍̳̭̲͚̤̱̜̝͋̌̏́͋̈́̓̓̑̾̄́͗̇͆͂̈́͌̌̀̆̌̍̐̀́̂͋͆͌̊̀̽̚̚̚͘̕̕͜͠­­̨̨̨̨̡̖̥̱̫̳̝̲̟̟̜̘̘̖̘͉̰̜͍̦̳͕͈̮̘̲̭̙̱̺̱̱̤̗̯̮͍̮̗͓͎͎͙̖̭̱̪̟̼̯̖̮̭̱̟̟̭͜͜͜­͔­̨̟.̸̡̨̡̧̛̼̦̯̪̬͖̮̟͈̜͍̱̯̰̞̹̖̯͈̯͕͖͍̞̙̺͔̥̠͎͙͚͍̝̝͎̬̳̻̣͑͊̈́̋͌́̐̓̎͐̒́͝ͅ­̞͖­̯͎͍̹̖̰̳̫͙̺̭̱̳̠̩̥ͅ.̴̨̧̨̨̨̰͈̥̥̲̣̖͉̬̭͖͚̟͔̳̲̪̻̙̜͓̖̩͉̯̫̣̺̟̳̺̻̭̺͠ͅͅͅ­̦͇͎­̢͉̪͇̩̖̮ͅ.̵̛̛̼̳͎̲͉̠͍̣͎͆̋̓̏̅͒̄͐̏̎̅̓̋̐̋̃̀̑̐̀͋̍͆̏̂͒͗̾̓̃̅̍̄̈́̽̈̕͜͠ͅ­͕̝̟͕­̡̨̢̨̳̮̤͔͔̙̦̳̟͍̼̬̙̲̥͈̟̣̤͔̥̣̳̖̠͖̱̭͕̥̖̩.̴̈́̀̍̎͐͆͑̔̈͊͗̎͌̉̅̎̾̆̏̔̏͝­̑̇̄̍̈́­̢̛̗̱̞̝̹̺̮͆͌̆̌̎͆̀̄̓̀̀͌̊̿̋̽̿̂̆͑̄͑͌̈́͆̋̏̿̅̄͆̿̓̐̄̾̀̂͐̌̚͘͘͘̚͝͠͝͠͠­͎͍͉͎͚̱­̧̡̧̧̡̧̡̡̨̣̜̟̻̯̩͔͕̲͚̱̳͚̫͙̳̬̝͓̟͉͕̬̻̥̯̭͔͔̼̙͙͇̝̯̤̹͖̪͚͎̦͕͙̜͜ͅͅͅ­̪̺̪̘̩̞̘­͇̩͕̗,̸̨̧̛̖̖̺̖̦̰͚̯̏́̑̅̅̋̌̏̓̽̀́͆͗̈́̈́̈͂̅̕̚͘̕͘͝͠,̷͑̏͒̋̀̇̐̋͗̓̕­̧̃̊̀̂͜͝͝­̢̡̭̣̭̹̥͓̱̫̙̺̲̟̣̲͔̠͚̝͎̭̬̯̦͓̝͓̜͍͕͇̖̭͉̯̯̰̙͓͎̮̗͇̩̱͎̰͍̘̭̖͓̥̘͜­̠̬̯̲̮̜̥͇ͅ­͙͓͉,̸́̉̓̅̔̀͒̒̉̑̐̉̈́̍͗̈́͂͐̃̓̑̾́̿̔̎̂̈́̉͐̓̆́̋̽͊͛̒̾͒͆̉̎̚͘͘͘̚͠͝­̐̈́̊͑̌̃̊̓͗͠­̧̦̣̙̯͒̋̄͘,̶̡̡̡̛̫̣̮͚̤̖̦̭̦̖̬̥̥̺̜͈͔̝̩͍̗̙̫̝̱̘̮͈͋̆͊͑̅͛̽̇͝͠ͅ­̨̠̠̣͎̗͔͎̫͈͈­̨̡̡̠̟͇̣̬̩̤̯̟̗̜̭̻̳̪̝̹̣̺̗͉̲̹̰͉̺ ̴̧̢̧̺̣͎̻̳͍̹̮̪̺̜̳͍̺͖̩̮̬͇̩̗̘̮̪̲̱̔͌́̄͜ͅ𐎢̋𝙯𝕊҈̰̤͡𝔠̨̡̛̰̌ͩ͘͢͜”
“𝙁̰̦⟣𝒘⏃ᴉ̷­­̛͎̘̝̿͡⩔̨̠𝓞̟͎͈̣̅𝖍𝗇⍭͖͓̳̮͠𝘋🝑♮𝑥̘̳͞𝙰𝕦̳̻̺̊̔𖹰”
“⟒𝓥͍̖̲̗͖̆̾̿͡͞𝙢Ⱦ̶̬̇ⶂ͛ ̴̜͔̃͐ ̷̍͜ ̴͙̲̮̳̑ ̵̘͆̄̎̂͘ ̷̛̫̿ ̵̫̗̥̆͊ ̶̨̛͔̝͆͛̍ ̷̗͕͉̉͘ ̴͍͉͕̫̎Ⲏ̘̒̾̕𝛬̦҇̾𝙅𝚻̲̚͞𝕢”


My ribs.    My knees.     My fingers ache.
The seabed     yawns           beneath me    as I continue forward,    searching.  Memory fragments      litter the floor—       bright as innocence,       glinting      in the light         they have been buried beneath        

        all this time.


“҂̒⫶̷͖̼𝞈̱͝𝓉̮͟🜍𝙼Ҙ̵̖̙̓ͅ𝐓⺣ ̴̭͓̄͘ ̷̢͒͋ ̶̣͆𝖣𝓤̶̻̩͚̠ͭͦ⏚⟁ͮ𝛥̴̹̰̑̕ͅ𝞁͛͠” “𝓦̴̮͖̜͐͛̓̎𝕋̟͕̔̕ͅ𝒐̶̫̃͂🝗⨉͚̩͝Ⱶ͈̥̖̾⟟𝓩̸̝͚̳̞̿̏𝙘̷̟͓͎⃛͠𝗌̧̞́͘” “⟊͈𝓜̝̪̞̆̿⦶̙̬̖͎̄𝗘̺̼͇̬́͘𝖝𝟏̋⧖̷̗̟̼̩̽𝚛̡̈͒⚁ᾤ🜄𝕑̨ⲧ” ̵̤̯̻͉̥͛ ̶̗̠̱̉̐̓ ̵̰͔̰͉̀̅̐ ̸̫̼͇̫͎̊̽ ̴̯͕͕̅ ̷̙̺̫͆ ̴͚̼̭͆̾̓̌̂ ̴͓̱̋́͋̀ǹ̶̻̞͙̞b̶̯̮̥͙͗̇͋͐u̵̱̞̲͊̓͆ “⥬̵͎̯̟̳͈𝙺͈͡⻿🜃̻͇̱ͧ͢⸸̡̯͘
𐎚̴̖̣̟̳̹̒̾͂̈́̊̊̎̐̓̄̏͌͒̓͆̄̇̀͒̊̌́͊̅̃̽͑̇̀̅̅̕̕̕
­­̢̜̪̞̹̦̣͓̖̤͂̇͆̀̏̏̆̐̽̽̍̄̆̚͘͠^̴̢̛̮̘͖̱̳̗͙̖̗̟͒̆̍̒̏̅̀̍̿̄̓̀͂̈́͛͑̓̄͌̎̚̚͝͝­̭­̧̢̡̼̜̘̘̘̤͓͓̤̠͔̻̗͕̫͔͇̳͕̦̤̗̪̝͉̖̻̯͍̠͖̠̰̜͈̹̯͔̤̪͎̬͕͍͔̭̦̥̳̯͈̼͖͓̗͔̪͜ͅͅ­̧̩­̧̩̞͚̥͓̼̰̪̖̬͙̘̳̦͍̰͚̹͜͜.̸̛̃͑̇̌̀͛̃͌̏̀͒͊͌̽́̅̃̽͌̀̂̍͆́̎̊̉̄͂͗̈͂̚͝͝͠͠͝­̎͋̂­̯͎̃̄̓̏͗.̴̡̢̛̜̻̩̜̲̳̣̳̓̆̊̇͂̿̏͐̓̔̌͂̀̏̊̀̐̔̾̀͛̂͌̒̄̾̑̀̉́̓̃̎́̃͊̐͘̚͝͠­̧̠͖̗­̧̧̨̢̧͓̥̥̘̬̟̬̤̖̠̰̦͚͍͈͍͖̠̻͚͖̭̳͈͕̱͙̬̬͖̗̲̳̻̘̗̪̬̳̠̰̹̰̙̙̹͔̳͔̘̗̩̬͖͜­̦͍͖͕̺­.̴̧̖͚̮̰̄̑̃̒̈́̂̏́̊̒̀̀̑͌̾̊̂̐̈́́͂͊̄̈́͛̔̂͗͗̽̔͌͌̊̓̍̑̓̎̒̔̏́̿̇̌͌͒͘͘͝͝­̤̟͖̟̤̩­̢̢̧̢̢̧̡̨̹̟̻̠̦̘̦̤̰̞̣͓̫̮̗̞̣͇̘͚̱͕̱̝̞̹̱̪̦̥̝͇̻͓͍̟͔͕̻͍̠̗͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅ'­̴̋̌̉̒̉̉­̧̛̛̥͍̣͈̻͎̳̞̺̙̙͖̣̽̋̓̀̄̑̂̓̈̋̂̓͂̉̀̂͒̓͒̿̾͑͌̓͒̊̂̏̋̆̑̍̽̅͌̀̋̀͘͘̚­͈̬'̴͗̑̔̉­̡̡̳̻͎̟͕̟̥̘̗̤̥̗͖̖̮̗̯̝̩͇̱̱̯̠̦͉̟̦̜̼͙̼̲͙̩̓͊̓̇̎͛̋͐̓̃̿̍̀̅̈́̚͜͝ͅ­̨̧̘̫̳̦̭̗ͅ­̼̟͙̭̻̞͈͓̜̺͈̲͈̺̺̟͇͓͈͓̫̬̻͍̻͜ͅ'̵̛̞̱̰̠̗͓͓̞̬̥͚̻̱̜͛̊͒͗́́̈́͆̿̋͘­̤̘̞͙̭̖̺̦̳ͅ­̡̡͈̤͎̲͕̯͔̭͇̝̤͚͕̬̤̘̙̤'̸̢̡͉̠̹̙̬̮̪̩̪̖̜̮̩̝̀͆̀͂͊̔̉̋'̷̐̈́͋͒͊̚­̛͒̔̓̉̐̎̄̃͋͘­̛̒͑͂͌͒̅́͑͛͂̈́͛̐̌̀͗̈́̅͂̈̅̈́̐͆̍̈́̆͌͌͒̀́́̍̄́̐̈́͊͋͑̄̀͗͘̚̚̕͠͝͠͠­͛̾͋̏̄̏͛̏̾͌͘̕­̢̧̡̨̧̫̗̩̙̤̻͖͖͇̦̹͉̲̖͇̱̩̗̣̰͇̖̜͙͖̤͓̳̠̬̣͚͇̤̿̐͜ͅͅ'̵̛̾͊̓͗͝­̉̿̽̑͑̔̓̄̈̑̃̓͝­̐̈́͑̍̀̉͒͆͂̃̓̈̌̍̀̇̑͐̅̐̎̈́̄̐͐̅̍̈́͋͊͑̂̉̌̊̔̎͊̓̿͂͊͛͑̓̎͛̕͠͝͝­͎̞̏̓̒͐̈́́̂́͘̚͘͝­̧̡̧̢̢̳̖͎̺̭̹͍̞̺̻̟̗̟͕͉̮̜̳̥̠̰͙̯̫͜ͅ'̸̛̪̳̰̝̇̃̈̔̌̈́̌́͋̽͑͝­̨͖̥̗̜̹̼̟̣͓͖͍͙͚̪­̧̢̻̘̺̘̰̣̮͍͓̳̹̰̲͙͚͕̪͉̺̼̼͔̲͙̘̩̙͚̼͇̘͍̗̼̯͖̺̖̱͓̠̰͈͜͜ͅͅ­̘̙̖͔̯͚̻͔̗̱͔͎̫͈͜ͅ­̭̳͇͔͚̩̣͖'̴̡̛͙͎̘̖̬̲̭̫̗̖̿̋̾͆͗̓̐̔̓͂́̐́͊̂͐́̽̉͑͘͝͝͠͝'­̷̆͛̒̃̐͐̍̏̎̾̀̕̕͘͝͝­̛̛͈̋͐̋͌͑͐͆̇̒͂̊̐͐̈́̈́̐̄̅́͊̿̾̿̅̋̏͑̓̈́̋̆̌́̑͗͑̍̅͆̊̕̚̕͠­̡̢͉͖̝̩͓̱̹̮̜͇̗'̴̾̄́­̖̈͂͂̆'̷̢̧̧̨̨͍͍̝̦͖̬̩̘̓́̀̽̈̓͌̃̀̀͑͒̋͑̄̎̒̋̂̓͐̽̍͘̕͝­̣̖̙̻̬̭̙̠͍͔̺̦͓̻͇̮̘̬̠­͉͚͖̘ͅủ̷̌̎͒͐̍̉̂̅̓̀̅̄͊̎͊̃͋͂̓̾̔͌͊͆̓̋̌͌̿̅͐̓́̅̕̕͝­̃̔͋̾̈͐̓͌͗́̈̎̉͊̋̎̑̃̚͝­̧͚̠̜̮̰͉̱̗̼͍͔̩̯͓͖̞͉̠̠̻̤̤͗̅̋̓̀̚v̴̛̓̅̎̇̅̄͂̀̓̈̕͝­̛͖̖̻͎͆͋̓̑̈͋̍͌̅͐̉͒̋̋̍̚­̧̢̱̝͔̮͇̹͍̙̦͉̣̪̫̳͖̞̯̪̻̜̹̲͇̺̩̩̣̪̠̥̭̝̝͇͈͓̤̤̠̜̼­̡̭̫̠̰̗̰͙͈̠̙̯̹̙̯͙̞̼͙͈͙͕­̧̧̢̹̩͍̼̮̰͇̳̰̯̗̲̤̬̯̪̩͉͖̰̺͎i̷͋̓̀̃̽̉̌́̉̃̽͌̔̕͘­̍̾̀̃̽̄͋̏̇̐̀̈́̇̓͊̔̊̓͘̕̕͘͝­̨̧̜̩͙̘̪̼͔̮̥͇͚̼͔̫͇̪̗͍̻̠͍̩̠̫̻̣̺̳̳̲̘͇̿̀̅̒̚͝͝­̪̭̺̮̟͓̘̳̫̝/̶̡̧̢̢̢̨̧̛͇̗͉͎̙͚̩̭͓̱̬̗̼̬̹̯͇̞̟̫̭̱͉̪̝̱͎͕̯͕̟̹̣̦̭̺̫͓͍̳̙̮͚̩̬̦̬̎̄̓͜͜͜͜͝ͅ­­̢̡̨̭͎͓͖͖͍̯̲̪̙̱̮̝͇̤̪̟̭͙̮̖̪̩̜͖̘͉̗͕̳̯̤͚͍/̸̧̧̢̡̡̢̧̢̗̣̗͉̩̤̝̞͚̱͙̬͚̘̜̪̗͙͙̩̯̥̤̪̰̙̣͔͎̰̰̩͂̀͑̄̍͜͜ͅ/̷̛̛̛̛͐͐̎͂̏̏̓̈́̋͐̈́̆̑̑̿͗̂̓͛̓̈́̔͐͌͛̎̽̇̎̋̅͛̌̏̀̃́̅̿͗̔͛̉̐̾̓̄̉̒̄̚͘̕͘͝͝͝͝͠͝­­̡̡̡̨̧̧̭̹͎̻̻̺̙͓̱̱̟̩͙͕͍̗̜̘͍͖̳̯͙͔͔̘̻̣̖̠̼͎̰̤͙̹̫̝̟̜͖͉̓̅̈͒̂͑̏̒̈́̊͌͘͝ͅͅͅ­͕­̨̪̟̞̭̪̘̳̜̬̙̜̱̲͖̝̻͕̤̦̳̲̮͍̪͜/̴̧̢̞̗̙̘̰̼̘͔͉̯̜̭̫̤͍̮̟̮̥̪͇̬͉̙͖͎͎́̾͂͛̈́̊̂͊̂͆̆̾͐̾̒͛͋̓̓͐̆̋́͊̅͘͘̕͘̕̕̕͜͜͠­­̢̨̳̤̮̰̻̼̮̻̹̹̹̮͔̩͕͖̮̳͔̭̙̼͕̳̙̥̠̘͚̗ͅ ̷͙͇̺̿̇̋ ̴̲̖̽͑̈͊ ̷͇̎̂̈́ ̵̗̩̏̈́͌ ̵̛͓̼͚͙̈́͑ ̶̣̞̮͚̄̉ ̷̪̒ ̷̨͖̈́̀”


But these beautiful,             
shining     memories,           none    belong to the one I seek.     No,       they are       the humans she has drowned,                  devoured,          and       kept their memories              as her prize,                         her entertainment.          As if their demise,            to claim the                      eternal memory   of their humanity,         is her victory.

It’s a beautiful,

       tragic,

       sickening
                            sight.

And to find        the one I need      
        the one she has kept prisoner,          
              I must dig.

Not with hands alone,
                         but with this resonance.
I search                through the wreckage                 with something
                    deeper              than vision. I listen—
for that breath,                 that ache,                  that                     impossible    note        
of Death's          
                            presence.


“⩡⺺̟̰̱̇­̵̢ͅ҂̒⫶̷͖̼𝞈̱͝𝓉̮͟ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊🜍 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊𝙼 ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊Ҙ̵̖̙̓ͅ𝐓⺣̲̻ͧ͡𝖣𝓤̶̻̩͚̠ͭͦ⏚⟁ͮ𝛥̴̹̕ͅ­̰̑𝞁͛͠” “𝓦̴̮͖̜͐͛̓̎𝕋̟͕̔̕ͅ𝒐̶̫̃͂🝗⨉͚̩͝Ⱶ͈̥̖̾⟟𝓩̸̝͚̳̞̿̏𝙘̷̟͓͎⃛͠𝗌̧̞́͘” “⟊͈𝓜̝̪̞̆̿⦶̙̬̖͎̄𝗘̺̼͇̬́͘𝖝𝟏̋⧖̷̗̟̼̩̽𝚛̡̈͒⚁ᾤ🜄𝕑̨̺ͤ̕͞ͅ” “⥬̵͎̯̟̳͈;̵̛̓̀̈́̎̃̀̓̃́̾̔̀͂̍͛̐̅͗̌̑̽͌̂͊́́͗͒̋͒̃͗͊̈̑͋͛̊͐̄͋̉̂̎͊͌̚̕̚̕͝͝͝͠­­̔̋́̐͋̀̎͒̐͌̾́̍͛̒̐̈͑̀̌̄͊̈́̓͐̐̿̌̀͑͒̏̍̍̌͗̐̐͆̈́̎͗̑̑̎͒̓̔̓̈͗͗͌͆̃̃͂̈́͘̕̚̕͝͠­̓­̢̡̢̢̼̖̼̹͈̥̞̤̞͈͈̬̙͍̠͇͙͍̦͚̳̐̑͒̃̆͒͂̀̒͋͋̌̔̍̏͒̈́̌͗̌̐́̓̄͋͑͊̊͝͝͝-̷̎̈́͑̕͠­̋͘­̡̹͕͈͇̗̯̦̯̗̙͙̰̙̙̤͉͕̫̉̒́̃̐̄̆̔̒̅̿̀̿͐̓́̏̈͋̈̓̍̋̉͑̽͆̽̂̈͗̎̈́̉̍̾͊͘͘̚͝͠͝­̢̙̟­̡̡̡̨͚̬̥͖͙̯͍̫̮̤̦̳̝͇̪͔͕̫̥̻̩̱̭̬̪̫̠͎͕̮͎͇͇̞̥̬̰̲̘͓̣̝͕̼̲͕̟͇͖̰̭̣̣͜͜ͅͅ­-̵̽̈́­̛̇͗̓̄͛̿͑̎̐̒͊̆̈̃͐͑͒̔̈͐̑͊̂̑̃̿̂͐͂̈́̀̆̔̀͛͒͊͛̓͐̂̈̑͒͛͂͛̂́͆̍̇̕̕̚̕͠͠­̂͂͛͗͘­̛̆͊̒̌̐͊̑̋̎̿̈̌͑̄̓́̅̍̇̋̒͛͊͂͊̌͂̌̋̂̓̋̂͗͂͆̑́͒̓̏̾̔͗̋̓̐̾͐̒̇̏̒̄͘͝͝͝­̋̏̋̋̃́­̨̡̡͔̫̙̳͈̠̣͈̤͍͈̟͕͓̱̠̪̤̥̻̭̰͉̜̭̪̼̲̣̥̙̺̪͚̰̘̤̰̦̩͉̖͎̤̰̠͚́̆̅͒̓̐͠ͅ­̡̤̟̣̳͓ͅ­̡̧̢̡̧̯͉̩̤̩̭̮̦̫͚͉̩̬͕͇̝͖̯͓͖͖̭͍̫̞̗̦͓̼̖̭͓̦̦͓̳̣͉̠̥̙̙̥̙̜͙̺̝̫̦̜͔­̡̹̯͉̲̣̞͜­̮͕̪̥.̵̧̧̛̺̮͙͉͇̲͚̦̙͙̩͎͚̼̠̦̣̤̘̝͔͔̠̪̪͉̠̘̺͋̈̈͌̽̽́̈́̐͂͛̈́̕͜͝ͅͅͅ­̻͔̝͓̱͙̹̙̞­̧̪͉̫̹͖͓̣̮̦͓͙̬͈͍͙̮̣̪͜;̵͑̊̉̍͐͛̊̅̆͋́͗͛̓̄̉̔̆̌̍̃̐̃̍͌͘̚͝͝͝͝͝͠­̂̀̎̊̏͆́͗͘̕­̢̡̢̢̛̛͖̙͉͎͕͓̹̞͇̪̦̖̥̱̩̗͉͇̮͙̝̝̜͋̄̉̑̀̌́͑̉͒̃͆̇͒͐̐͋̀̈̒̿̕͝͝͠­͍̩̯̣̼͖͍̳̣̺̦­;̷̎̈́́̂̓͛̏͂͋̈́̉͐̆̉̃͒̐̈́̓̈̊̍̅̍͐͆͑̽̀̍̌̈́̌͆̋͒͛̈́̚̚̕͘͘͘͠͝͝͝͝͠͝­̛͑͛̔̂͛̃̃̌̀͌͒­̢̨̭̠͇̮͕̗͎̹͉̥͖̟̖͚͈̱̳̟̹̖̜̼͇̫͚̙̹͔̜̲͚͙̠͒͑̉̾̌̃̑̈́͋͊̽̿̈͘̕ͅͅ­̢̣̻̺͖͈̟̫̙͜.̴̕­̛̛̾̆̀̔̑̉̒̌̔̒̍͆͂̇͐̎̑̄̉̀͊̊́̽̇̾̏͐̈́̇̽̒̀͑͒͛́́̽̐̃͒̇͋̕͘̕͝͠­̊́̿̈́̿̋̏̔̎̐̍̆͘̚­̗̮̭͕̥̘̫͗̍͗̋͗̾̓̓̿͗̿͐̓͌̍͛͌̔̓́̂͊̅̏̓̏͐̈́͊̔͛̈́͛̋̈̔́͘̕͝͝͝ͅ­̢̢̧̘͚̖̖̹͖͕͎͓̳̹̱­̨̡̢̢̩̥̱̖̟͇̲̬̘̥͔͚̫͉̰̜̣̟̳̼̫̞̳̞̹͙͎͜-̸̗̜̪̪̤͖̜̉̏̃̑̄̀́́­̧̡͕̜͓̱̪̩̺̟͚̻͈̰͙̰­̡̢̡̫̼͇̹̲̦͙͍̖̱̤͍͇̥͙̮̞̙͎̭̼͈̖͔͎̩̙͔͍̥̬̯̩͙̤̬̩̺̟͙̺͇͚͜ͅ­̢̼̙̣̱͕̳͙̯̤͍̥̞̥͖̙͜­̧̨̪̞̺̙̘̠͍̙̤̖̳͙̘̝̬̫̤̤̤̰̰̜;̷͂̓̄̄͒̆͋́̉͒͑́͋͑̉̈͌̑͐̒͝­̛̑́̆̋̒̉̓̋̒͆͑̍́̈́̍͗̕­̉̈̈̍̑̔͗̎̅͐͛̿̓͋͆̍̽̎̀͌̄̒͒͋̃̑͆̉̈͋͊̎̎̆̃̂͆̑̏̈̕̚͘̚͠͝­̝̜͚͉̤͍͊̽͐͆̅̏̓̀̓͌̚͠͠­̨̢̨̡̨̧̣̯̖̘͈͎͓͎̮̱͈̹̬͍̱͚͖̙̼̱̝͉̮̱̙̣̭͈̦̠̯̙̩̩̞̣͓̳̮­͉̬̠̜̮̺͙̘̲̳̭͚̪̱̺̻͙̰͜ͅ­̨̢̡̪̘̹̜̳͉͔̩̙͕̫̺̥̫̖̥̼͔͈͇͕̳̼̝̤̙̹͈̰̙̬̮̮̹̖̙̥̼͜ͅͅ­̞̟͜'̸̛̏̒̉̿̇́̿͂̀͛͑̔̊̅̏­̏͋͑̆͂̒̔̀͆̈͂̃̈̊̾͌͑͗̆̾̒͆̄̉̍͋̉̓̉͋̑̽̌͗̆̃͑̑̕̕̕͝͝­̭̬͚̦͓̥̆͂̇͊̔̋͑́̓͊̿͑͊̓̔̕­̨̧̢̢̯̠̜͍͙̣͍̭̲̫̲͖̥͍̗͖̟̠̭͖̮̻͈̯͖͕̼̙̦̲̱̳͎̮̗̦̞ͅ­̨̧̳͉̼͎̥̘̤̣̹͚̖̱̹̞̰̻͕͕͍͓ͅ­̡̡̨̙̮̹̖̭͍̳͖̣͖̰͖̩̘͎̼͎̜̞̯͕̖̙͖͍̰̰̠̗̺̪̞̫̮͜͜ͅͅ­̢̺̪̜͚̪͎̘̖̭̱̮̺̜̜͔̺̞̞̭͉͉̰͜­̘̜̖̘͙͖̼̼̰̥̜̩͖͓̻͔̹͕̮̠̩͜;̸̓͐͆̃̂̋̉͑̅̌́̄̉͌͐͝­͒̌̄̃̊͆̄̐͐̽͗̍̈̊̀͛̈́̅͆́̂̿̔̚͝­̾̈̀͒́̀͂͌͛̾̋͑̒̋̏̐̏͋̒́̍̓͒̐͊̍̏̋̄́͛͊͑̾͛̎̏͠͝­̓̉̽̆̔̑̑͗͗̓́͂̂́͊̇̋̀̑́̅́̓̍̇̀­̛̇̽̉͂̑̃͋̌͒͂̓̔̍̌̈́̎͛́͑͒̈́͋͌͌̈́͊͐̀̊͛̾̚͘͝͠͠͝­̡̢͚̯͚̞͔͔͉͍͎̬̳̦̫͚̟͓̳̯̹͈̆̿͜͝ͅ­̡̢̥̞̙̘̖̻̯͖̝͔̺͓̙̱̞̖̠̩̥̞̘̯̺̟͔̦'̸̀̇͗͌̐̔̕­̆̽̏͂̉̃̓̎͑͊̉̀̾̍̂̅̓̌̿̋̀͐͒̑̚͝͝͝­̊̄͊̒̍̂̄̍͑̉͌̈́̃̋́̊̓̄̒̋͛́̿͋̂̂͘̕̚̚͝͝͝͝͝͠­͆̀͗͊̓̾͊͌̈̅͋̓̿͂̔̏̔͂͐̎̄̂̄̃̕̕͝͝͝­̛͊̾̈̓̄̍̽̈́͒͑̑͐̓̎̆͂̅̈̃͛̊̏̋͗̀͂̿͘̚͝͝͝͝͝­̢̫̘͚̭̠̮͚̘̤̖̭̭̪͈̯̬̣͕̳͖̟̟͗̿̆̈́̏̌ͅ­̧̧̥̯̪̤̣͚̦̱̙̫̤̠͈͍̣̺̖̲̲̥̜̝͕̙̱̗̻̤̥̯͜͜­̧̨̩̯̯̖͔̱̖͍̞̘͇̻͇̻̻͓̞͈̜̭̯̮̳̮͙̻̦͓͇­̨̢͍̦͎̳͈̫͇͔̮̙̠̩͍̬̤̰̺͍̥̤̫̰̱̟̗̬̫̬̞̯̼­̳͎̫̰͜'̴̛̃͆̂̃̇͌͛̀̇̐̃̉͑̿̂̈́̈́͒̈́̈́̈̄͘̚­͌͛̋̊̓̽̍̂͛͊͛̓̈́̈́̽̀̈́̈́͊̋̈́̓͐͛͐͘͘͝͝͠͝͝­̉̆̂̈́͊́̿̆̅̈́͋̌͂͑́͒̐̾̄͐̀̈́́̋̇̐͑̌͛͘̚͠͝­͙̱̱̠̙̭̙̲̭̳̜̩̓̈͗̆̾̎͋͒͊͛̌̊̐͘̚͝͝͠͝­̡̧̨̘̞̰̻̖̘͈͎͚̟̗̹̹̼̺͖͚̤̭̫͕̳͇̭̺͎̝͇̩͜ͅ­̧̧̨̨͖͙͇̫̦̼̝͍̲̣̼̰̳͔̰̻͙̥̣̜̲̦̫̳̭̠­̨͍͖̠͍̳̮̲̰̪͉͔̻͚̟̙̳̹̮̞̫̭̗'̷͋́̔̒͋̍̆̿̓̕­͒̃͛͋̑̔̋̈̉̉̄̏̋̉̉͆̋̽̽̏̂͑̐͛̈̚̕͝͝­͙̫̝̤̱̳̼̐̍̈̀̅̓̓̿͛̾̋̾̌͛̇̌͋̌̍̃̃́̂͐̄͘̚͝͠­̧̥̜̬̟͙͉̭̻͈͉̲̪͔̬̼͉̲̜̭̻̣̪̫̩͜͜ͅ­̡̢̳̠̙͚̯̜͉̭̤̫̻̦͜͜ͅͅ'̶̄̈́̄͑̈̋͑̈́̇͗͋́̂͘̕͝͝­̢̱̼̗̙̠͕͕̞̻̽̆̽͌̈̂̇̃̀̈́̀́͋͆͝͝͠­̨̧̡̟̝͔͙͎̘͙̩̙͍͓̼̱̠̗̥̯̺͈̝͔̭̳̣̙̜͉̦̞̩͚͔̣͜ͅ­̢̢̦̗̹̪̮̮̟̞̥͍̟͇̠̳͍̲̬̭͎̜̝͍͜ͅ­̢̰͙̗͈̝͕̞̻͉͍͚̦̟͖͚̪̰͉͔͇̜̭̥͇͕̜̼͙̪̺̮̘͇̜̫̞̜ͅ­̨̨̦̹͓̱̗͓̻̻̰̯̥͍͕͙̖͎̳̙̞͓͇ͅͅ­̮͖̜͚̭̱̘͙͕̘̼̮͓͜'̵̏̄̔̓̓̎͌̊̈́̿̅̀̄̏̄̈́͆̀̌͗̅̕͝­̊́́̅̈̀̆̍͂͂͌̊̑͂͗͐͌̏̑̾̀͆̚͝­̛͛̉̾̔̈́̿̓͗̈́̔̊̌̈́̄̉͒͌̍̒̈́̋͊͒̊̔͑̽̾̍̍̒͐̋̄̑͘͘̕̚͠­͕͍̦͖͓̬̟̘̫͇͙̲̪̰̭̘̬͇̥̮̇̅ͅ­͓̟̪͈͜'̸̗͔̝͍̮̗̫͔̹̘̪̖̻̙̠̣̭͚̦͔̩̺̞̳̥͖̬͉͚̍̒̈́̌͜ͅ­̡̨̢̼̲̰̩̻̙̗̳̻̣͙̫̬̰̖̺͍̺ͅ­̡͍̩͉̗͕̖̟͓̭̮͖̙̰̣͜͜ͅ'̴̀̍̇́̄̎͐̊̄̀̇́͗̍͂̓̾̓̀̎̕̚͝­̛̉͛́͗̐̏̑͐͋̍̆̀͗̈́̽͗̍̕͠͝­͂͛̈́̈́̉̌̓̊̌́͒̂̓͂̈͛̍͒́̂͒̈́͌̈́̽͋͛͌̿͂̀̽̾̅̓̕̚̚̕̚̚̚͝͠­̛̇̎̀̽̂̌͂̒̈́͋͛̏͑̊͂̈́̚̚͠­̨̛̙̝̋͌͂̑̿̽̔̉̍͗̄͛́̈́̀͌͛̔̈̋̆͆͗͐̅͌̏̎̉̾̀̓̎̕̚͘͘͠͠͝͠­̢̫̼͙̺̪̮͍͕̖̱͓̜̖̤͖̲͉͜­̢̧̧̢͈͔͍͓̞̙̤̝͖͉̟̲͎̙͕̘̦̠̝̳̤̰̱̮̻̪͖̺̘̬̬̪̰̙̗̺̳̙̘͓͜ͅ­̨͚͇͇͓̼̳͓̦͙̞͓̦̰̗͎̦̲­̨̢̧̢̨̨̡̣̭͚̥̮͖̺͇͚̖̖̞̤̬̲̙̗̲̯̰̙͍̬̳̗͍̹͓͉͔͚͉̣̹̦͙̪͜͜͜­̧̪̤͔̗̠̺̳̻͔̳̤̙̘̠ͅ'­̴̋̃̈́̅̉́̈́̀́͒̃̈͐̒͋́͋͑́̅͛̃̔̑̎̈́͊̈͋̈͐̄͑͂̉̉̊͗̿̚͘̕͝͝͠͠͝­̛́̅̃͋͂̊̀̾̉̋̃̏̚͘͝­̢̢̧̛̪̩̱͍̖̰̬̻͚͖̟͉̻̙̯̜͈̖͓̠̱͇͈̼͙̹͉̲̹̮̗̲̟̹̈́͆̈́̒̽̎̓̌̚̕͠­̧͔͍͈̗̝̱̮̹͔̭͉͕͉̫­̡̱͈̙͖̣͍͈̪͓̘̤̤̹͕͈̞̺͖͍̞̹̲̦͕̬͕̣̼̹̘̜̰̱̙̮̙͇͚͖͉̦̰͎̺͔̞̘̬ͅ­͔̬̳̼̩̪̜̤͚̱̺̣̖ͅ­̢̡̺͍̤͙̗͙͙̬͕̺̟̙͎͎͚̜̹̣̬̠̣͍̘̞̖̺̫ͅ'̵̓͋̈̿̊̌́̾̋̆̑̇͂͋͒̀́̕̚­̏͐̄́̊̄̍̎͋̐̒̀̈́­̨̨̨̣͖͖͓̗͚͙͖̜̳͖͚̗̘̞̯̻͖̱̘͕̩̜̙̥̙̻̰̬͎̩̟͚̱̰̠̰͙̜̭̤̄̐̋̓͜͝ͅͅ­̺̮̬̩̣̣͙̯͔̖̳͕­̨̡̨̡̧̯͉͕̥̙̭͓͔͍̭̖̤͙͓̤̗̯͕̺̣͍͍̙̣̤̜̭̼̙̪̞̥̻͓̗͎̻̪̪̻͙̻͇̪̼̭̥ͅ­̨̨͕̮̘͉̻̱̪͚͖­͈͕̦̥͕'̴̛̛́̐̀̔̇̋̄͛̄̏̈͂̎̌̓̒̐̉̀͆̏̈́̃̍͊́̐̉͌̑̉̆͆͊̽̀̒͒̈́͘͘̚͝͠͝­̽͗̇̎̿́̐͋̾͠­̦̰̹̺͖̼̺̪̫̫̜̲̮̰̼̝̞̪̖̻̈͒͗̔̽͌̐̔̐̈́́̅͒͋̊̈́͋͌͊̈́̀̓͊͂̐̂̽͂̈́̓̈́̓̀͝ͅ­̼̰̟̫̣͚̬͜ͅ­̨̢̨̧̢̢̢̨̢͍̼͇̤͉̳̰͔̭͎̖̜̜̞̞̣̺̙̫̪̩̠̯̘̪͉̪̜̗̟̫̺̹̪͙͜ͅ'̴̛͒͗̅̍̌̆͝­͛̅̋̃́̋͋̕­̨̧̡̡̤͔̻̗̯̭̹̬̭̖̤̬̭̫̞͉̖̪͈̳̪͙͕̺̻̹̯͎̫͙̰͖̭̠̣͈͕̞̫̭͎͓̱̎̐́͑̂̐͗̚͝͠­̗̞͍͖͎͓͉­̡̡̡̡̨̣̻͖̰̞̩̟͕̜̱̭͔̞̦̜̙̲̺͚͖͙̞̞̰̬̳̹̤̪̳̲̖͕̯̮̟̖̝̙͍̦̞͜
̶͑́̽̎́͊̀͗­̼̰̣͓̦̼­̨̢̨̧̨̮̤̗͍̼̩̰͕̗̭͙̭̠̲͎͉͍̲̜͇̭͖̦̞̳̜͙̠͇̘̤̭̼͕̱͉̻̟͕͍̲̦̱̺̮̪̯͕̳͜ͅͅͅͅ­͈͚̪͉̭­̢̢̡̢̡̨̨͉͚̱̼̲͔̺̥̺͉̞͎̮̝̜̣̰̥̗̹͎̞͓̠̝͉̲̩͔̪̥̜̱̹͚͖̥͍͈͔̪͉̹̲͓̹̬͖̹̣͜͜ͅ­̡̠͉̦­̨̨̰̣̺̲͉̣͚͉͈͎̜ͅ'̴̛̔͑̈́̔̔̿̅̔̇̊̋̓͂̈́͊̇̃̉́̆͑͊̈̀̔̈́̊̓̋̀̾͊̒̍̄̓͑͆̽́̕͝͝͠­̓͋̚­̒̄̈͆͌͆̿̏͒̿̋̍̓̓̂̅͒͊͂͂̇͒͊̿̎̀̌̈̊̋̔̊̃̈́͌̾̆̋̀̈́̑̓̊͂̿̽̋͛̃̈̀̀̈́̓̍̂͘͝͠͠͝͝­̎̕­̡̢̧̧̡͕͇̼̫͖̗͖͔̱̣̩͚̭͓̫̙͕̘͚̻̗͕͓͇̪̩̞̗̬̺̠̫̳̪̞̦͍̜͚͍̬̪̘͙̟͙̩̬̻͇̬̯̞̐̄̑ͅͅ­̮­̨̡̨̡̢̡̧̡̗͍̲͎̝̭͔̘̼͓͓̖̠͚̣̫͈͉̭͉̬̠̞̮̥̜̻̹͓̲̮͖̯̺̖͕̮̙͎̼̬͎̲̲͙̦̺͉̟̙̘͜͜ͅͅͅ­­̧̧̱̱̞͉̮̬̦͉̭̠̠̼̫͓̬̬̬'̴̨̗̞̯̩̩͍͇̖̘̪͇̻͈̗̠̥̖̗̩̘̲̜̦̗̌͌͊̔͌̈́͛͋͋̏̒̎̎͆͘͜͠ͅͅ­­̨̨͎̺͈̺͙͙͉̫̤͈̻̳̖̺͎̼̗̼̤͔̞̳̭̫̼̘͇͔͚͎̹̱̮̖̣̱̜͕̗̤̰̺̺̘̜̲̰̰̗̟̟̬͈̮͈̖ͅ'̴̆̀͠­͗­̛̛̛̆̓͑̊̑̒̀̀̈́͊̂͌̉̐͑͂̈́̀͂̔̓̌̍̃̈͊͑̀̿̍̔̄̓̉̓̆͆͛̂̅̇́̐̑̀̐̽̿͋̓̄͘̕̚͘͝͠͠͝͠­̃͗­̛̀̐̂̃̊̾͊̆̉͐̉̌̋͒̋͒̊̾̓͋͆̅̐̀́̿̀̇̍̐̽͐͒̃̿̽͌̈́͌̈́͂̂̏̓̔̒̅͑̒͆́̒̒̚͘͘͘̚͘͝͠­̯̓ͅ­̢̧̨̡͔̜̫̗̟̳̹͖͔̭̭̙̹͍͚̙̯̼̳̰̰̫̥͇̼̗̝͓̣̤̮̙̦̳͓͇̞͇̪̗͇͖̳̱̺̫̠̭̣͙̝̯̯̭̖͖̯­̨̻̤͔­̡̹̘̻̺̟͎̼͔̻̬͙̟̖̼͇͚̞͕̱̯͖͙̫̟̝̬̩̫̼̼͚̠̝͈͎͈̬͇̤̙͜'̸̛͂͊̽́͋͒͋͛̒̅́̃́͘͝­͐̈́̓̓̚­̡̤̙̹͇͚͈̮̣̟͔̤̙̱̙͍̜̪̪̱̤͍̼̌̏̄͐̐̈̌̀͌̿̐̊͗̅̂̓̌͑̓̈́͐͑͒̐̅̌͂̾̉̈́͜͝͝͝͝͝­̪͕͈͍̯̰­̧̨̡̧̨̜̻̞̦͎͎̫͙̱̤̲̰̳̹͖̹̩͓̤͕̠̫̩̹̖̞̼͍̙͖̜͓̪͚̙̰͍̭̼̜̙̳̲̳̰̦̭̲̹̰̗͜ͅ­̧̡̬͓̺̙̥­̡̡̨̡̡̻̞̪̰̠̘̣̟̹͈̤̙̲̝̖͔̮̖̻̘͙̼̮̳͉̺̖͇͇̗̗͇͓̗̩͉̖͚̳̹̣͕̘͕͖̟͙͔͖͇ͅͅ­̝̙̱͕̠̖͍̜­͉̣'̴̛͛͊̎̓͛̓̈͒̅́̆͌̌̀͌́͒̈̈́̅̀̈́̈̍̒͂̾̉͐̑͆̈͊̄͊̏̾͋̑́̉̽̚̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͝­̛̈́͛̈́̉̉͘͝­̡̨̧̛͔͍̹͙̪̬̯̭͊̿͆̆͐̑̇̂͐̿̑̆͗̏͋́̎̈́͊̃͆̄̽̀̏̉̿̇̌͆̓͌͐͛̀̚̕̕͘̚͝͠͝­͍̙̗̣̪͎̦̠̲̭­̡̢̪̬̣͔̮̦̦̜͚̝͔̳̹͓͉͈̦̙͈̠̻͓̖̝͜͜ ̸̡̨̡̛̛̳͕̠͔̮͓̺̤̟̰͖̖̙͙̖̭̓̇͐̀̃͋̉̇̀̾̃͊̔̂̐̎̎͋̃͂̔̑̊͌̉̇͂̌͋̀̋̀̏́̓̾̚͘͠͝͝͠ͅ­­̙ ̶̢̦̤̺̦̫̫̣̦̙̳̰̰̭̘̻̹̝̟͐̀̈͛̐́̅̓̉͆̅̌̄͗̿͑̽̿̀̆͂͑̇̿̏̍͗͌̎̆̈́̊̔̈́́̏̏̏̄͘͘̚͜͝ͅ­­̨̢̡̱̤̰̥̥̠̯̞̣͓͔͖̮̫̹͙̭͎̼̦̣͕̲͇̹̯̲̦͎͜͜ ̸̡̧̛̰̰̭͗̈́̏̈̊͐̓̎͆̎̂̃͒̊͂̿̅́̀̓͗̌͆̽͗̑̊͆̆͑̊̈́͗̇̾̆̄̇̎̔̓͑̉̌̾̑͑̿̇̅̚̕̚͝͝͝͠ͅ­­̧̢̨̨̨̦̞͔̲̠̝̰̹̺͓̯̲̯͓̹̖̺̼̜̪̜̪̖̱̦̤̳̤͓̦̟͈̤̹̱̰̟͎̳̗͕͖̪͙͔͓̯̠͔͉̪̳̘̭̮̺͜͜ͅ­̟­̨̡̢̧̡̱͔̹͕̝͍͎̘̦͓̰̩̟̘̯̝̣͓̳̹̜͎̤͓͚̜͙͙̯̤͔̳̬̳̺͜ͅ ̷̓́͛̇̓̈̐͒̈́̍̏̌̈́̀͋͐̅́͌̇̓̊͐͂̐́͆͗̋͑̌̑̽̄͐̎̒̔͒̔̀̾̇̌̐̍̎̏͑̓̃͆̀̈̊̆̚͘̚̕͝͝͠͠­­̛̛̔̏̍̽̉̌̑͊̈́̊̓̿̈̿̐̽̈́̅̓̂̋̌̉̽͌̽̾͗͋̆̄̀̌̔͒̍̾͂̿̽̓̂̄̓̍̏͋̔͂͘̚͘̕̕̕͘͠͠͝͝͠͝­̆­̨̬͔̬͕̹͇̹̦͙̱̻̤͔̪͔̖͓̻̩̯̱͓̰͍̦͖̜͖͉͙̭̯̈͊̽́̓͊̒̊́̂̿̎̂̽͂̀̾̒̑̓͋͑͂̚̕͜͠͠ͅͅ­͕̪­̡̧̧̡̩͍͍̙͍̜̭̻̹̫̗̹͍͚̠͔̲͙̥̜̺̩̬̙̝̭̲͕̮̹͓͉̪͍ͅͅ ̶̨̛̭̘̲̜̥̯̤̣̟̩̖̺͇̰́̔̈̇̍̓́̾̉̎̈́̉͒͐͌́̃̐͆̄̂̀̓̈́̊̓͆̔̏̓̎̇̔͗̑̿̆̒̓̐̏̏͒͛̈́̚͝͠­­̡̡̨̡̡̡̧͍͉̠͍̥͎̭͕̲̙͇̼̳̦͖̠̥̺͇͔̤̩̻͚̖̣̜̭͎̰̩̜̻̘͕̺̻̱̜̩̲̩͔̗̺͖̯̬̻͕̻̗̤̬̲ͅͅ­̼­̧̙̹̻͔̗͈̙̣͖̗̖ ̷̨̢̢̹͕̣̟͚̣̝̜̳̣̟̠͖̹͈̋̊̾̂̿̀͂̃͆͐͋̿̃̊̃̈̂͐͋̈́̌̿̄̽̃͑̀̑̊͘͘͘̕̕̚̚͜͜͝ ̶̡̢̛͙̼̥͈̈̀͒̅͆̒͋̄̂̑̇̃͋͗̉̇̊̀͐̌̑͗̿͆͊̀́̑́̑̆͂̀̏̆̈́̔̒̂͂̈́̑̀͂͗̄͂̈́̈̑̐̍͘̚͝͠͠­­̧̨̡̧̡̢̧̬͓͇̞͓͖̯̬̮̫̠̟̯͕͕̼͕̼̺̰͇̬̙̥̤̙̻̠̦͇̘̤̙̯̲̮̲̲̼̰͎͍̹̼͚̭̩͍̜͍͍̭̭̖̦̘͜­̺­̧̧̡̢̢̢̮̳̯̰̱͚̣̬̼̻͍̤̬̤͖̰̮̳̜̤̩̫̝͉̲͔̘̣̯̣͚̱̝̭̗͈̘͙̙̱̗͈̫̲̹̥͔̬̝̳̣͍͍̞̺̹͜­̙̳­̡̗̮̲̮ ̸̛̒̂̏̀̀̓̆̀̊̍̔̿͒̀͋̀̄͒͆͆̔̂͂͐̓̌̒̓̂̏͌̈̌̎̎̅́̍̌̄̈́͂̌̍̅̎̇̎̆́̆̐̈̕͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝­­̡̧̨̧̡̢̫̳͉̖̼͙͉̮̘̣̬̟̖̱̩̩̤͉̠̰̫͔̺̼̙͎̠͉̻͙̫̞̥̟͕͕͇̬̩̳̮͚̥̻̋͜ͅ ̷̛̛̛̛̛̛̋̉̀̿̓̾̿̀̓̑̾̎̄̉͊̈́͗̈́̇̈̐͋̈́̀͒͌͂̒̎͋̆̆̓̒̈́͆̔̑̊́̏͆̏̅͐̈́̔͛̓̚͘̕̚͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̛̛̍͂͗̿̈́͌̽̀̂͗̀͌̀̈́̀̋̓̀̍͂̒͐̌̈̋͛̿̎̎̊̄͆̈́̈́͆̓̈́̽͒̀̔͆̀̋͒͆̀͂̿́͊͛̆̽̓͐̕͘͝͠͝­̆­̡̘̝̣̾͗̍̏̽̾͊̄͆̄̂̇̎͠ ̷̛̛̈́͂͗̏̓̌̇̍̄̇̈̊̊͌̎͐̿͊͗̏̓̄̋̋̅̔̀͋̓̀̓́̾͑̒́́̌̌̿͊̈́̀̀̀̐͌̉̂̅́̃́̚̕̕͝͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̛̈́̊͆̐̆̅̈́̽̅̆͒̓̀͑̇͂̌̃͊̀͌̏̍͗̾̅̈́͊̌̂̎͑̉͆́͐̎̆̾̐̿̅͗̔̈́̔͋̓̔̔̍̕̕̕̚͘͘̚̚͝͠͝­̄­̧̢̨̢̛͕̩̤̞͚͕̺̪͕̖͎̮͙̺̳̻͉̖͙̝̞̬̭̙̯͖͈͚͉̣͎̪̦̹̯͔̭̦͔̣͆̀̒̐̈́̿͑̎̊̒̿͐͑͗̊͜͠͝­͓̥­̢̡̡̢̨̠̤̝͓̭̱̟̫͔̙̣̭͓͙̣̦̬̤͉͍͓̞̣͈͓̙̪̞̦̱̪͉̙̘̹̠̠̹̙̜͕̲̪̺̜̥͙͇͖̜̹͖̱̟͙͜ͅ­̮̰̜­̢̡̲̖̺̲͇̯̫͈̪̳̳̘̩̜̙̗̞͚̰͜ͅ ̷̍̉̓̋̎̒̅̃̆̑́̇̆̉̃͋̀́͗̀̅̈́̇̌͂̈̈̓̄̈́͋͌̀̾̿͐̽̔̓̏̈̌̓̉̐̌͒̃͂̒̊̚͘͘͘̚̚͘̕͝͠͠͝͝­­̛̈̋̃͂͒́̀͑̍͂̋̃͊͒̄̑͒̈́͒͋̇́͒̃̽̔̂̋͛̏͒̇̆́͗̋̈́̋̀͌̒͊̿̃̓̈́͛̌̑͆̾̔͑̃̇̃̏̏̒̇̕͝͠­̄­̨̧̢̨̨̛͎̼̤̩̝̳̞̦͇̬̰̦̥̟̺̤̞̯͓̱̠͖̟̙̺̫̗̠͙̹̼̲̗͚̬̝̙̬̞̒́́̅͛̀͂̓̔̾̂̇̚̚͘̚͜͜­̝̭­̹͔̱͇̞̹̜̗͔͙̼̺̞̜̰̫̟̤ ̴̛̀̌͌̔͒̄͌̏͗͑̓̆̉͌͗́̀̋̉͗̑̃̍͗̈́̈́̈́͆̔̐̄͆̈́̇͌̉͗́̌͋̈̈́͌̃̓̿̿̐̓̏̓̈́͘̚̚̕̕̕͠͠͝͠͝­­͛̐̓͊̀̎̀̄̓͒̇͛́̄̌͒̉̃͛̒̌̋̄̓̄͐̏̂͊̏̔̈̋̇́̄̍̈́͋̿̔͑̓̓̊͐̈́̅̽̔̒̀̽̉́̎͂̂͘̕̚̚͝͝­̕­̢̢̧̢̧͇̣̥͉̥͉̥͓̼̺̺̱̝͚̱͔̫͍͔̦̘̭̖͇̼̞̭͎̤͍̠̼́̃̓̈́̀̽̿͛́̓͆̈́́̆̄̍̃͑͘̕͘͝͝ͅͅͅ­̤̳­̨̨̢̱͚̬̘̞̜̞̥̜̤̙͚̙̳̹̻̝̫͖̟͖̤̗̲̥̲̦̯̮̱͓̳̣̩͜⸸̡̯͘ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊𝚵̤̠̾𐎚̖̣̟̳̹̒̾𝔁ᕸ̢̣͙̙̎⪴Ⳗ” ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊ “̹̤̎͜𝓢̜̳̅𝕀⎔̟̤̿̾𝙥̨̟̎̕͞🞛⻬͕͡𝓩͉͝🜅𝒻͙𝓚̧̛̩̝̱͖̲̲̌͒⛶̫̑𝙸̔”


There—        ­­            no, that’s not him.               A mother’s final lullaby.  Still               beautiful.                   Not              him.
Another—                   hope torn      from a dying prayer. Still                  warm.     Not                   him.
And then—              
  I inhale—

—and feel it tear through me like lightning.
A grief so profound           I nearly collapse.

I can’t see                     them,                  
            these memories,        
                                        him.


­­“⥶̵̴̼̪̫͙̠̬̜̙̐͒̔͋̕͟҂⩮̬͖͟͞͞⟉⻼̦͍̲͖̝̲ͪ̓̎͝ⴸ̨̠̒̾⧇⧉̵̣͔̠̥̦̣̮̺̜̬̗̥̔͌͟͜”
“­⛒­͕̎͢𝓢̛̛̟̟̽̿🜂⻖̵̡̯͓̳͉͕̦̬̙̞͛͊̀̀́͒͋̓͜h̴̴̶̪̫͍̙̠͖̣ͭͩ̐ͭ͊́̅ͫ͟­̠̦͊͒̉͋͛͟­̸̢̠͍̩̖͕̒̈́̃́̓͢uņ̷̡̮̬͈̘͕̫̘̓̾ͥ̓ͦ̏ͣ͜͟\̵̵̧̛̦̩̲͍̖̪̯̙ͤ̍́͂ͮ͐ͨͦ­͕̟ͫ̊̃ͭ͟­̶̵̧̫͓͍̤̃ͦ͗̒ͯ́̉ \̵̧͎͓̖̭̘̙̪̝̪̬͉̳̃ͬ̂͗̽ͫͧ͊̔ͨͩ̈ͭͦͮ͋̓͌̀̑̉͒̏̕͜͞\̴̷̧̹̳̟̝̇̔͊̒ͮ́́ͤ͊̄ͣͣͬͩ̕͢­­̴̢̡͔͖̗̘̘̩̙͉̉ͥ͗́́̕\̛̠̪̳̲͉͍̻͍͚̣̟̳̯͓̦̩͕̓̅ͭ̔ͮ̒̊ͥ̌̓̿ͮ̀ͫ̀̾̑̀̚͡͡͝ͅ\̦͚̒͑­̘­̴̢̢̼̼͚̱̲͈̠ͣ͐̎͂ͨͫ́ͪ̄̚͜\̷̷̡̢̨͙͉̮̠͓͛̽ͫ͐ͬͥͬ̒̎̓͠\̶̠͍̙̣̣͇̖ͫͩ̌͒ͪ̿ͮ̅̐͜͞­̬̤­̺̇\̴̷̵̡̛̪̦̹͖̠̲͎͖̙̗̮̪͚̯̟͓̞̱̤̤̤ͨ̍ͨ͑̊̄̏ͧ͐̾̑̄ͦͮ̊̇̈͛̋̎ͥ̐ͮͩ͘̚͟͞͡𝙀̠̯­̼̕­̹̗͓⃧̕͜⾁͗͌”
“⧶̵̹̩͎͕̣̹̿̏ͩ⛓̛̼͈̟̦̒ͦ̽𝑴̴̲̻͍̰͝ ̴̝͚́̇̀͗̓͆̉͝͝ ̷̱̠̐̈́̃͛̀̈͗̆͘ ̸̡̪͉̰̼͓͙̻͕̄̀͌͒̐̃̅͐͐͜͝ͅ ̵̬͎̻̺̩͍̤̓͒̍̀̏̽ ̷̢̧̖̝̭̖͚̩͕̥̜̪̓̽🝑⺙̡͕̫͙̻͉̬̾̓͢͞͝⪩̨̺̖̰͐͜­͉̱ͣ”
“ ̵̢̨̻̘̙̜͈̼̮̫̫̙͎̯͍̱͙̭͖̣̝͇͎̌͆̈́͋̃͐̿͑̽̑̂̃̋͋̓̌͑̅̎͒͋̔͑͊̀̓̅̉̓́͒͂͛̾͘͘̕̕͠͝ͅ­­̧̹̱̪͈̲̘͙͈̻͇̜̭̪͉͙͇͉̳̘͍͔ͅͅ ̶́͛̉̽̓̍̓̾̑̉͑̉̽̊͋̊̿͂̿̈̋́̓͆̒̏̅̂͐̓́̂̇̄̀̆̎͐̐̐̐̍̄̈́̔̔͌̏̈́̈́̔̀̀̀̾̒̆́̈͘̚͝͝͝­­͉̪̗͕̠̤̳̰̬͗̾̍̀̍̆́̽͑̽̇̓̒̓̀̓̈̐̽͆̔̑̊́̽̽̾̉̈̌̃̆̍̌͐̑͊̑̊̕̚͘͘͜͠͝͝͝͠͠͝ ̷͕̺̗͎͖͕͚͉̜͕̺͔̮̼̘̺̼̲̦̣̻̓͛̇͐͛́̔̇̾̌̀́̋͛͊̀͗͆̒̈́͆̅́̀̿̀̿̃̋͂̓̓̑̀̄̑̉́̇̕̚͝ͅ­­̡̨̧̧̧̨̢̦̦͍̫͍̲͈̙͔͉͓̖̫̫̗͉̭̝̱̳͔̳͓͇̮̩̭̯͉̤̖̟̳̬̙̹̞̥̬͉̫͙̯͓̩̜̺̤̮̬͙͎̠͎͜ͅͅ­̱­̨̨̹̼̺̖͉͔̼̲̳̪͈̮̱͉̠͖͎̗ ̷̨̢̭̘͖̳̙̳̻̣̪̳̮̝̺͔̼̬̪͚̗̪̗͔̰̩̠̮̥͍̪͇̘̥̜̲̤͔̣͖͐̒͌͑͛̿͌̂̌̏̏̑̇͆̔̾̈́͘͘͜͝ͅͅͅ­­̨̨̧̡̡̥͕̥͖̮̞͓̹̣͉̜̻̙̻̫̖͚̖̮͎̲͇̮͔̮̯̭̪̻̖̬̣̻̲̟͉̖̻̥͕̙̠̣̖̬͉̞͈͕̹͕͉̪͔͖̞͜ͅͅ­͙­̨̢̨̧̡͔̙̬̭̼͈̤͍̻̗̼̭̹͉̹̫̞̭̻̬̮͈̩̘̳ ̸̆͌͗̀̉̅̆̐̓̈́̈̀͒͌͌̽̔̏̀̄̓̽͂̔͂̔͒͑̎̃̎̈́̆̓́̇̿͗͋̑́̓͌̽͆̄̀̈́́͋͂́̀̈́͑͊̒̅́̕̚͝͝͝­­̨̡̢̪͈̹̠͎͎̺͚̻͖̣͎̯͈̳͙̟̗̣̺̟̟̦̫̯͓͖̺̀̓̎̎͜ͅ ̷̛̆̊̆̔̈́̐̀̂̀̓͂̈́̐̈́͒͛͂̑̽̐̐̈́̉̽̓͋̇̀͗̄̑̉͗̃̊͆̓̒̾̑͑͊̂̈́̌͌͗̈́͑̈́̄̃̔͗̊̓͂̐́̕͘͝͠­­̨̞̘̫̟̠͖̲̼̈̐̌͂͊̈́̆͐̿̂̏̇͌̃̽͗̈́̀̌̿̊̍̈́̐̽̎̎̂̈́͌͊̄̉̌͌́́̈́̒̒̄̐͋̾̓̕͘̚̕͠͝͝͝͝ͅ­̜­̢̢̨̡̧̦͙̹̦͕̺̝̝̝̲̱͚͍̹͎̫̗͕̘͉̘̟̰̘̘̪̱̰̻̗̝͕̬̲͕̺̺͕̮̬͕̯͖͔͙̩͙͍̦̮͎̪̮̺͎̬̼ͅ­̦͙­̧̨̧̡̪̮̖̙͔̯̬̻̝͎̗̦̳̳̰̦͇̭͇͎̜̘͙̪̼̘͈͔̭̮̪̜̭̙͈͎̤̭̬͓̯͓͈͔̰͍̜̲̱̼͓͖͉̠̘ͅ ̷́̅͒͋̉͂̾̓̔͑̎͗͆̿̀́͗̊̎̃̎̎̇̓͋̽̑̎͗͐̅̌͊͒̐̎̄̎̇̐̊͑̔̍̊̐̊̏̇̀̃̃̓͊̄́̋͊̐͒̔͘̕͝­­̛͖̹͚͉̲͓͚͔̘̳͎̪̖̟̟̘̣͈͇̫̆͑̿̉̽͋̈́́̌́̈͛̌͂͘͜͠͝j̵̛̛̺̘̳͐̌̀̎̽͋͗͌̓́͌̓̓̀͘̕͝͠­̱­̨̨̨̡̡̢̡̝̭̲̠̹̳̥̺̠̪̱̘̟͎͕̻͇͙̤͖͍̝͈̪͔̜̞̫̠̗̝̙͔̹̝̬͈̗͕̮͙͈͍̩̯̰̙̝̮̳͜͜ͅͅͅͅ­̤̪­̧̢̧̧̢͍̭͈̥̰̲̖̥̺̟̯̖͓͎̦͈͚̼̖͙̟͚̻̖͉̟̩̟̜̠̲͍̜̼̮̙͕͈̺͜͜͜͜-̶̎͂̉̈́̾̇̑̍̓̄̀͝­̉̉͂­̛̈́͑͐̾͐͊̍̅̅͌͑̅̿̂̎̀́̈́̈́̾̆̈́̿̓̅̏̽͑͊̈́̈́̌͆͛̀̅̆̓̒̔̓͛̇̊̆̌͌̈̂̌͒́́̕̕͘͝͠͝͝­̔̑̚̕­̢̛̳͔͍̘̟̪̈̉͊̀̀̍̊͗̿͒̄̈́̈́̂̀̅̈͛͊͒̊̍̀̓́̏̀͊̌̍́͐̑̿̐͒́̆̑̓́̌͊̒͊̚̕͘͘͠͝ͅ­̨͓̲͙̩­̧̧̢̲̬̱̰̜͇̯͙͍̖̪̮̩̦̜̺͓̣͕͙̜̲̘̲͎̲̖͈̥̝͖̪̳͕̖̟̯͚̝̭̪̖̖̞͍̗͕̦͚̯̣̮͎͜ͅͅ­͙̥͇̥̤ͅ­̨̨̧̧̠̟̻̤̗̥̲̹̜̟̺̙̜͇̦͎̙̞̺̦̭͖̬̗ͅ-̵̞̠̩̫̟̜͇̠̓͌͒̾̇̈̿͛̈́̾͛̿̋͘͠͝͝͝͝­̢͔̻̭̠̻͜­̨̡̡̙͈͕͔̥̣̰̭̻̯̯̤̭̭̘͜(̸̛̛̇̏͋͗̈́̀̽̑͒́̐̈́̀̀͐̍̒́̌͒̍͆̊̔͒̂͋̐̚̚̕͘͠͠­̒̇̆̈́̐́̐̂­̛̀͒̂͋̓́̆́͐̆͌͆̃̏̏̆̓͐̉͌̅̄́͒̏̉͋͊͛̾͑̐̏͆̐̆̉͒̃̋̒̎̈́̓͆͑͗̐̒͌̚͘͝͝͝­̊͆͗̅͆̒̏̕̕­̨̨̧̧̪̯͓̺̬̭̣̥͕͔͉̖̳̝̰͔͈̱̞͍̠͇̰̖̜̲̻͇̥̯̝̺͍̭̎̈̏̿̐̇̇̽̉̌̈́̈́́͑̃́̿­̨͖͔͔̰͔̰̖̥̥­̨̡̡͍͖̹͕͉̗̜͕̲̦̪͕̳̗̻͉̖̻͔͍͙̰̼̺̤͙̦̼̼͎̝̲̭̲̙̫͜ͅ)̸̛̿̄͒̃̋̒̓͐͌͘­̋̿́̅̑͋͂͛̒̊͝­̛̛͑̆̔͒̿́̒̈́̌̏̀̃̄́̅̑͑̉̽̃̿͐̎̍̔̀̐̑́͑̿̈̏̓̽̐̃͐̿͗̋̑̉͂̀̉̒͛̕͘͝­̧̮̻̞͖̲̗̟̀̎̔̕­̡̨̧̱̲̰͎̭̠͍͎͈̗̥̼͎̟̻̺̪͈͇̞̲͎̦͈̰͚͉͎̭̮̻͖̫̲̜̪̭͎̬̹ͅ)̷̍̊̆̕͝͝­̃͑̑̌̌̓̀̅̉̎̕̚ͅ­̧̡̧̢̼̩̳̞̥̰̭̖̤̮͈͕̞͇̘͎̠̥̤̥̥̞͓̗͍̥̪̦̙͖̺̘̰̬͈̪͈̬̫͎̠̮̣̯̮͜͜­̡̧͉̳̯̗͙͈͙̫̜͖͜͜­̡̧̧̨̡͇̥̥͈̱̰͚̫̩̭̙̯͓̼̹͕͎͈̗͔̜͈̟̹̻̰͖̥͓͍͕̩̼̮̤̹̟͉̼͇̤̬̲͜ͅ­̝̤͍͇͜ ̴͇͎̘͈̙̫͚̳͋̈́̈́̓͒̕͝ ̸̛̛̛̛͆̇̅͂̔͐̂̓̋̀͌̿͋̇͐̽͛̿̌̀͐͌̄̈́̆̈́̏̆̆̀͆̇̀̈́̿͂̿͗̈́̒̂̈́̓̍͒́́̀̇̿͋͋̾͘̚̚̕͘̚͠­­̧̰̻̜̥͍͓̗̝̳͚̫͙͎̝̭̲͕͖̰̩̱͍̺̣͕̬͔͕̻̙̺̣̞̟̱̬̣̠̆̇̀̍͂̓́̿̓͑̐̑̄͛͑́̒͛̃͘͝͝͠͝ͅ­̤­ ̶̛̛̛̏̈́̽̽͑͋̓̄̓̋̂͋̐́͆͐̿̉̀͛̏̌͊̑̆̽̐̇̉̃̈́͌̀͐́̇̀̓̃͌̋͒͐̽̈́̒́͐̋̐̊̂̓͌͒͘͝͝͝͝͠­­͇̪̹͈͔̝̗̪̣͔̲̯͍̠͗͒̓̿̆̒̏͛̉̈̽̄̏̂̔̍́̽̓͛̀̈͘̕̚̚͜͝͝ͅ ̴̛̯̰͎͂̈̆͐͒͗̔̀̀̂͑̔̂̊͋̓͛̌̏̿͛͗̏͑͌͋̓̊͗͋̅̿́͛́̑̂̀̈͌̈́̋̔͂̄̊̑̈̐̄͐̾͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠­­̨̡̨̡̡̧̘̻͕̖̲͕̬̞͙͙̤̬͖̯̭̱̜͎̘͉̰̰̤̙̞̩͓͉̟̙̮̭̲͔͓̗͍̭͕͉̪̙̠̺̜̩͉͓͎͚͍̩͍͎̟̗͜ͅ­̤­̡̡̡̬̗̦͉̘̪̤̼̪̖͎̗͓̺͎͕̤̮͖̯̯̥̙̜͈̙̗͎͙̰̬̮͜͜ ̶͇͖̇̍̓͗̈́̋̊̃̏̅͛̂̆͊̔̔̈́̊̽̓̈́̇̉̒͋͂͐͂͒̒͊͑͒̅͋̂͂̀͊̔̈̏͊͛̿̔̓̒͂̒̏̈́͛͘̚̚͠͝͠͠͝͝­­̢̧̲͕̗͎̫͉̥͉͈̩̺̰͔͕̗͓̺̫̳̻͕̤̼̥̫̤̟̣͇͙̥̭̯̬͎̥ ̶̡̧̡̛̛͓͙͔͉̮̟̞̳̞̪̣̘̦̰̬͖͙̆͆̌̎́͐̿͊̿̈́͆̂̐̊̇͆̋͛̊͆͒̆͆̀̏͑̇̎͒̃̀̕̚̚̚͘͜͠͝͝͝ͅ­­̡̧͍̹̤̮̖̩̗͎̜̘͓̯͙̯̞̜̣̦͓̺̜̜͈̣̬͇̹̼̞̩͔̮̝͓̹͎̹͈͔̙̳̣̹̥͜ͅ ̶̡̨̟͚͖͙͚̣̟̭͓̘͇̬̺̪̞̜̙̰͕̼̪̳̟̬͚͙̜̼̪͆̏͐̓͌̑̅͆̀̈́̾͊̀̈̐͆͘ ̸̛̂̄̈́̒̔̈̏̒̉̓̑̽͋̾̑̓̾̎͛̐̓̓̋̓̐̔̈́̄̋͛̂̅̓̓͊͑̈́͗́̊́̈́̈́͗̆̃̏̈́̈́̎̿̉̔̎́̏̏̕͘̕͠͝͝­­̛̤̜͖͓͗͗̿͑̒̽͑̈́̕ ̵̛̓͆̀̒̿͑̄͐̀͗̔̂̃͌̆͛̌̋̃̈́̔̈́̾̐̈́̆̈̊̒̀̏͂̓͌͒̽̈́̿̅͋̇̌̀̽͐̽͗̃̑̇͂̚̚̕̕̚͘͝͝͝͠͝­­̡̧̢̛̛͎̭̭̦͉̳͕̞̪̜̭̖̯͕̹͚̙̰̼̼̥̗̳̮͍̬̓̑̽̄̅̌͒̀̍͛͊͛̍̂́̐̊̐͒͗́̈́͂̒̏͌̍̈́̚͘͜͝͠­̭­̢̢̡̨̢̧̢̡̗̜̜̞̳̲̻̬̼͎̜͕̖̖̠̮̹̺̘̭̝̻̰̘̣̗̞̮̭͚̤̯̭͈̝̗̫̯̮̭̻͕̖̭̭͓̗͉̪͙͉͜ͅ ̶̛̛̿̌́̓̈́́̒͐̈́̽̑̆̉̊̏͑̐̾̊͊̅̒̓͌͐̆̊̌́̏̀̇͐͋͛̍̎̔͐̂͑̀̓́̆͒̏̏̓̿̔͊͗̅̈́͗̕͘̚͝͝͝­­͂͋̃̓̆͒̂̀͊̓͐͐̎̄̍̾̀̽̑̑̊̃͊̆̈́̒͊̈́͑̄͋͛͐̈́̍̊̉̂̽́̒͛͒̍̈̈́̈́͌̇͗͐̓͑̕͘̕̚͘͘͝͠͝͝͠­̈́­̧̡̨͍̳͎̲͚͇̗͕̱̳̻̹̟̻̠̦̫̳̪͈̻̣̺̜͕͚̠̪͕͕̭̻̰̝̪̩̳̱̩̼̲͎̩̦̮̪̮͚͖̳͇̯̥̬̹̣̬͙̐͜­ ̴̢̛̤̫̰̪̹͕͎̘̣̺̟̩͙͓͈̖̻̝̫̏̔̈́͊͌́͗͂̽͗̓͆͑͋̄͑̿̎̋̒͊̇̀͑́́̍͂̄̓̈̑̐̇̈̕͘̚͜͝͝͝ͅ­­̨̡̡̗͈̗͚̺̥̤͓̗͓͎̬̝̠̩͔̩̺̖̜͜͜ ̴̀͋̈́̅̃̓̉̀̓̇͐̈́͂́̏̆͗̒̄͑̾̊̉͋̂̿̆́̅̒̓͗͐͑͂̈́͂͒̀͋̓̀͒͆̔̐́͋́̑̄͒̀͒̕̚̕̚̕͝͝͝͠͠­­̛̜͗̽̋͋̓̈́́̅͐̒̅̀̍̓̉̀̊̓͊̆̀̾̽̆͒͌̅͋̍̽̎̃̌̇͆́͒̑̈́̎̾̇̿̎̈́͌̽͑̍͗̓̀̓̈́͐̕̚̕͠͝͝͝­̟­̨̡̡̧̧̧̨̡̬̭̟͖͉̳͕͇͖̫̺̱̦̥̤̻͉̮̫̥̱͙̲̯̠̫̣̜͖̠̲̝̺̘̦͇̻̼̝̺̝̰̻̬̭͓̦̦͔̻͙̠̙͜ͅ­̲̳­̡̢̡̢̢̡̡̧̡͔̤̪̞͈̼̫̳̺̼͙̝̼͇̳̖̤̖̗̯̜͙̳̮̭͙͍̗͔̠̻̘̻̼̪̯̯̘̤̥͔̗͙͜ͅͅͅ ̷̧̛̣̳̣̮̖͈̠͚̳͉͇̭͇̂̈̈́͂̉̍̔͑̐̓̿̃͑̑̃͒̓͆̋̅͛͗̓͂́̐͒̔̈́͐͐͂̆̆̄͊̐͂̂͗̑͌͒͘̕͠͝͝͝­­̡̡̨̫͎̰̲͇̺̙͈̙͜͜͜ ̷̢̨̡̨͇̠̰̣̺̥̦̳͚͈͔̘̤̱͖̘͉̤͉͚̩̘̲͖̪͍̲̭͇͚̻͎̤̱̠̾̑̾̅̉͛͌̽̋̽̋̄̍̐͗͌̄̈̊̎͑̓̚͠͝­­̢̧̢̧̨̧̼̻͍̼̹̥̰̥̝̩̫̰͚̺͚̟̖̥̻͓͍̟̝̦̭̘̲̟̺̘͖͙̹͇̹͖͎̞̪͚̠͍̣̘̜̜̰̘̭̻̘̜͎͜ͅͅͅͅ­̭­̧̧͚̗̮̬̯͎̼̹̹̗̬͙͓̟̰̠̟͇̩̯̲̰̗̲̯̳̘ͅ ̸͋̐̔͆́̄̌̐̈́̇͋̿̆̎̔̽̈̆͗̏̀̋̂̔̋̆͒́͐͒͐̑͐̆͋͌͐̈́̾̈͋̌̂̈̈́͗̑̂̆̈́̒́̊͛̐̕̕͘͝͝͝͠͠͝­­̛̛̦̻̑̔̿̃́̉̀̄́̇̽́̌̈̀̊̉̎̆̅̏͆͌̓̍̈́̍̎̆́̎͒̆͗̇̽̽͗̉̉͌̓͒̉̓̋͒̓͐̊̅̑̊̾͘̚͠͠͠͝­͕­̡̢̧̢̖͓̪̲̪̻̱̦̘̬̳̯͔̹̤̺̱̜̠͓̟͇͔̼̤̗̗̰͔̲̭̰͎̼͕͖͕͕͚̥̮̲̼͉͜ ̷̛̛̛̛̍̂͌́̍̅͗͋̊̽͑̿̄̇͌̀̎̈́̾̀̐̍̉̎́̈͌̂̏̈́̔̀̍̋̎̀̏̓̏͐̿̀́̾̀̄͆̈̂̒͗̓̚̕̕̕͝͝͝͠­­̡͈͖̦̝͙͓̳̤̰͚̰̭̜̬͓̺̣͉͍̘͍̠̣̞̣̪̯͕̙̓̐͊͜ͅ ̷̨̧̨̙͇̝̙͈̖͉̟͎̲͔̪̱͕̲̦̙̠͇̻͔̲̥̘̤̖͙̰͖͈̀͑̽̀́̃̊̉̀̒̐̔̃̽́͘͜͜ͅ ̴̡̡̢̨̡̛̛̤̲̰̠̣̯̰̜̜̪̮̪̟͓̤͉̳̟̠̝̹̙̜̲̖̾͛̑̓͐͊̎̌̀̄̌͂̓̉̍͒́̈̋̈́̀̌̈́̎͋̽̀̈͘͜͝͠­­̨̡̧̡̧͕͓̣͔̜̗̭̺̹̖̣̩̻̩̜͕͔͔͙͖͕̳̱̺̹͓̝̞͎̟̝͚̦͔̻̣̖̰̰̤̗̮͎̲͕͔̜͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅ ̶͆̉͊̀̒̋̐̎̀͌͒́͗̀̓̋̄̈̓͐̀͛̉̔͂́͑̆͂̽͌̀̀̌̾̑̏̅̆͒̍͐̀͒̈́́̉͛̈́̈́̇̎̾̅̆̄̕͘͝͠͠͝͠͝­­̛̛̤͙͚͎̙̰̯̮̣̳̭̊̓̈́̓̓͌̎̍̂̀͐̀̔͂̑̐̐̓̌̊̄͂̆̉̄̐̂̓͂̊̂͂́̅͊̆̏̈́̒̐͊̔̔͘̚̚̕͝͝͠ͅ­͓­̡̡̟͇̫̣̘̩͈̜͎͍̹̖͍̲͉͉͚̖̞̟̲͚͓̼͚̹͈͙̥͉̮̮̬̙̻͕̱̘͚͉̥̝͜ͅ ̸̨̦͎͎̪͈̺̤͍̼̣̲̗̩̼͙̱̪̰͎̤̘̀̉̆̈́̂̉̅͌̽̾͑̈́͌̎͋͊̆̿̾͌̀̋̀̽̂̈̋̊̑͐͑̽̿̏̈́́̕̚̚͜͜͝­­̲̪̳̬̖̞͓̬͇̺̼͕͓͎̱͉̺͎̼̟̬̩͇̹̞͈ ̶̅̔̽̎͗̎͂̏͊̎́̀͊̽̉̓́̒̐̏̓̐̄͛̔̈́̂͑̓̈́̓̈͋̈́̽̇͆̾̌̍̆͐̎̽̑́͐̌̎͊̌͗͋̀͐̏̓̂͒̒͒͝͝͝­­̡̧̨̨̧̤̥̮̯̲̬̝͎̻̮͈͇̘̮̬̞͓̪̲̱̫̱̤͓̣͉̮̄͐̀͌̔̓̊̈́̅̇̔̀̈́̽̏̉̈̂͛̾̊̓̿̔͑̔̀͘͘͠͝ͅ­̧­̧̨̡̢̡͍̭̥̞͇͕̹̖̱̰̙̤̰̤̝̮̱̭̤͕̹̭̣̭̞̣̼̝͚̠̤͉͉̠͔̹͈̖̳̗̣̥̪̖̱̟̞̳̮͙̺̟͓̠͙̬͍͜­͔̼­̢̨̡̢̨̙̗̱̪͚̫͕̣̩̙͍̹̪̼̣̖̺̭͈̻̩̞̤͙̯̱̞̖̞̠͔͈͜͜ͅ ̷̛̛̉̃͒̀̽͊̅͂̓͗̿̏̽̅́́̈̈́̈́̒̋̇̀͛̄͐̑̑͗̌͛̐̾̂͋͐̽̇̃̋͗̈́͐͋͗̓̄̏́̑͗̐̋̈́̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝­­̡̡̢̡̨̥͈̮̘̼͇͕̳͔̪̩͕͓̠̪̫̭̫̮̒̈́̃̈͑̋̾̔̀̏́̂̿͂̊̕͜͜͜͝͝ ̵̡̘̹̜̙̙͇̣̰̝̲̲̥̞̮͐̈́̿̍̋͒̃̎̋̽͛͂̌͒̀͗̚͜͜͝͠ ̶̡̨͙̜̝̞͎̜̦̠̟͓͚͔̭̖͎̲̣̳̘̞̩̪͚̅̒̆̈́̈͋͊̓̏͌͗͛̄̈̃̀̈͑͌̇̈̾̆́̅̊̎́̒͆̒̕͜͠͝͠͝͠ͅ­­̢̨̢̧̡̡͎̩̰̩͎̙̮̥̻͎̻̭͔̖̝̦̲̬̘͚̰̯̝̝̱̞̖͔͉͙̬̞̻̹̝̥̯̣͚͓̳̺̯͜ͅ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊ⴭ̨͉̣̲̟ͦ𝛥̨̡͓͇̘̼̳̘̬͍͉̞̥̎͂͌̿̍҅̎̕”


           Something answers.
           Not a voice.               Not words.              But a cadence I      remember
  not by sound,             but by absence.

A hush beneath the screaming. A tremor through the bones of the sea. It is not calling out. It is waiting—

—because it knew I’d come. Because he remembers, too. Even buried. Even broken.
He remembers
me.


“⫯̵̥̝̰̥̬̎̾🝛͔̳̯̳͚̗̫̜̤̽̓̕𝓒̳̾̒⾇̡̙̰̫̆͢ⰱ͉̬̤̙̠̲⾊̺̟͇̣̓͞ͅ­̘̘̲̞ͣͅ”
“­🜎̻̝̗͖̼̎͘͠⨀̨̝͙̗̲̮͙̰̖̅͛̐̾ͅ🜓̛̛͍̜̪̖͙̾̿͘͞ ̶̡̜̞̤͍̪̖͈̭̝̝̓ͅ ̶̧̩͓͉͕̈́͠ ̴̨̖̥̳͙̤̮̟͔͙̘̼̱̺̰̀ ̴̯͓̞̤̺̘̫̤̼̹̀͊͆̎̐̄̇͂̊́̎̿̏͠ ̵̧̱͓̖͖̝̮̜̯͙̭͓̗̓̇̓͐͒̔̿͘͜͠͝͝ ̶̡̨̣̲̱̈́͂͜ ̴̡̧̱͍̬̹̦͉̑̍́͊̈̂͑̋̇̈̕ ̵̨̨̻͉͕̰͇̩̭̻̹̘͇͎̲̔͑̈́̿̏̿́̀͑͂͒̄̍͘ͅ ̴̢͇͚̭̱̼̗̱͈̣͕̤̞͎͚̳͆̈́͊͂͗ͅⴰ͍̹͕͝𝜲̛͈̞͉̖͉ͣ̒”
“⟊̶̠̝̳͋­̤̳͓̙̼̣͗⣮̢̛͕͇͎͖͉͘͡⣾­̷̣̠̯̖̒͌⾓𝓢̡̛͍̫̬͕̤̦̠̜͇͓̼̦̓͛͐̚͢”
“̛̪̻̫̥̫̓ ̸̛͈̟͉̘̤̱̝͓̥̜͎͇͉͂̓͌̀̊̿͌̏̑̔̿̈̾̐̆͊̄̍́̕͘͜͠͝ ̷̡͓̗̻̠̫͕̬̭̝̫̣̥̰͈͍̱̬͗͒͋̑̈̽̆̈́͒̊̽̇̎̃͊́̈́́̐̈́̈́̅̈̊̔͋͊̍͛̀̒̕̚͝͝͝ ̵̦͖̼̦͎̜̪͙̐́̇͛̽̅̈́̀̏̓̆̐̂̌͗̈͐̊̑̋͂̇͘̕̚̚͝͝͝ ̵̛̹̫̟̝̲͕͗̑̆͌̈́̑̃͌́͆̈͆̒͛͑̐̓͊́̏̒̎̅͘͘̕͘̕͠͝͝ ̷̡̧̡̫̠̻͍͍̱̦̪̗̗͓̟̹̲͚̣̙̥̲͍͊͆̊̉̆͐̔̅͊̿̌̓̓̊̍̑̕͘̚͜ ̷̧̢̦͍̩̳̜̱̖̼͓̱̟͚͍̭͈͔̜̟̮̰̩̣͈̰̭̠̈́̄̿̃̈́̾̈́̌̐̚̚͜͝ ̸̢̛̩̠͓̜̣̱̼̩͕̭̹͓͕̻̘͚̖̲̥͂̋̂͊̓́͆̒̕͠͠ ̶̡̧̡̢̠͚̭̝͔̗͓̱̞̗̮̗̳̥͎̰̞̩̲̺̤̳̯̟̪̖̜̖̦͉̤͚͂͜ͅ ̵̘̲̝̝̝̺̖͎̭͕̭̞̙̙̳͗̉̿̌͂̾̾͆̎̀̀̅͑̋̆́̈͐̂̑͛̕ͅ ̸̢̛̛̛͓̟͙̱̖̝͕͖̬̟̦͈̞͍͓͓̼͈̹̹̏̍̇̂̈́̋̅͌̾̑̆̓͆͗̋́͊͛̉͛̂̚̚ ̸̨̝̯͖͕̭̯̜̱̞̼͖͎̫̗͈̺̤̞̤̥̪͚̫͈̜̰̤̽̑̓̌̊̍̆̈́͐́͒̏̐̊̍̏̈́̐̈̽̂͑̏̀̎͂̀̿̽̏͠͠͝͠͝ͅ­­̫̪̗̜̲͍̥̗̱ ̵̡̢̘̹̦̮̗͉̬̙̱̲̳͔̲̟̻̪̫͕͔͈̭̯̹͇̖̘̳̪̙̥̫̯͖̱͎̀̃͒͊̂͂̽̄̅̈̓͐͒͊́̈́́̀̃̕͠ͅ ̶̢̧̠̙̹̯͕̦͍̭͍͈̬̖̬͙̯̘̫̻̯̮͎̈́̽̀͌̽̉͑̈̚͠ ̸̢̢̯̺̖̗̲̬̲̟͈̲̫̮̰̫̰̜̻̹̫̤̰͐̂͆̓̑͊̅̇̒̍́̈́̒̈́̈́̑́̿̒̚͜ ̸̡̡̡̛͉̥̪̩̝͉͎̖̭̞̘͉̟͕̟͔̪̙̼͓͖̬̯̻̖̰̦͕͔̘̺̍̂̏͋̾̽̍̄̋̈͗̊͛͋͋̄̌̚͘͘͜͠͠'̴͛̆͑̚­­̌̍͐̾̋̀̇͊͌̈͌͗̍̋̒͆́͌̀̉̑̓̀͗͛͛͒̓͆̓͑̆̅͗̈͛̂̊̈́͒̉̎̑̈̒̀̐̿̉̌͂̀͂̐̓̃̊̓͂͂͘͘̕͝­͗­̡̧̧̨̧̝͍̹͖̺͖̙̖̯͚̦͔̘̟͔̞͖̯͍̩͔̭̔͜'̵́̈́̋͌̋̈́͋͌͗̎̎̏̊̈̈̅̀̈̂̇̓̐̄͒̈̿͋̒̆̄̓̊­̕͘­̛͂͂͌̄͗̓̃̀͌̋̑̇́̍̀͑̒̔̿̅͊̈̓̊̄̒̇͒͆̉̃̊̅̈́̓́̅̾͐̽̿̇͛̑͐̊̍̓̂͗̀̀͘̚̕͝͝͝͝͠͠­̛̍̑­̧̨̡̗̭͎̠̟͎̙̯̮̞̌̈́̽̆͆̆͑̈́̽͑̓̇́̀̓̂́̓͌̈̔̎̀̓̍̏̊̈́̅͆̈̎͒̓̉̽̎̏͑̕͘̚͘͝͝͝͠͠­̨̻͍̤­̢͚̰̝̝͚̤͚̩͔͈̭̠̖̳̼͔ͅ;̸̧̨̨̢̨̧̧̧̗̲͕̫̹͉͙̠͚̦̟̞͓̮̝͎̦̞̤̳̼̝̣̩͖̫̱̞͐͜͜ͅ­̢̥͎͎̲­̡̢̡̨̡̧̨̧̨̤̪͙͖̜͎̥̠͎͙̤̟͍̟̻̘͕̹͖̺̻͍̜͉̗̺͚̞̺͇̗̮̗̩̪͎̫̲̻͇̮̣͓̫̫̩͖̮͜ͅ­̜̰̫͔̱̠­̞̯̖̘̠̯̹̦̰̩̦̫̗͈͈͕̼̫̪̲͍̙̗͓̰̦͇̲̹͉̟̞̗͍̠̦͎͕;̸̛̈́͑̉̄̑̀̌́͊̐̏͂̐̑̽̏̑­̀̈́̃̌͊̔͌­̛̄̒̀̊̎͋́̀̔̔͆̽̂̌̐̄̿̾̔̈͗̈́̋́̀̋̑̄͑̓̓̌̾̓̇̐̂͋̊́̏̈́̈̿̏̓̎͊̽̕͘͠͠͝͠͠­͑͛̀̌̆̓͠͝­̡̯̝̪̼̭̦̙͙̯̘̜͍̹͉̱̻͓̣̼͓̳̩̉͛̈́͊̓̂̅̋̋̄̑̋͌̓̆̇͘̚͜͝)̴̆̾̓̈̍̊́̓̌̕̚­̀̋͌͗̇̽̿̚̚­̛̛̛̌͋̿̎̐͒̋͛̊̇͐̈͐̽̍̓̒̒̽̐̔̌̀́̿̒̆̔̒̈́͆͂̐̒͐͊̊͛̆̂͗̈́̓̂̈́̚͘͘͘̚͝͝­̛̌͌́̉̓̀́͘͝­̡̡̨̨̢̨͙͉̤̩̼̞̟̞̬͔̞͓̙̹̼͇͉̥̹̠̲̭̥̭͙̬̱͉̼̻͙̰̬̗̯̈́̀̒̉̓̉̇̚̕͜͜ͅͅ­͍̠͙̜̰̯̩͚͍̯͜­͙͎'̷̎͂̀͋̿̓̍͆̽́͒̏͆́͒͒̎̇͋͒̉͆̉̍̾̃̍̽̇̽͛͋́̐̃̀͊͑͒̕̕̚͘͘͠͝͝͠͝­͋͗̆͋̐͐̎̐̔̒͝͠­̛̛̾̅͐̓͐̀̈͒̅̑̓̍́̓͒̏̃́̔͋̽͗̌͂̿̀̾̀̔̆̓̓͂̋̍̏̍̽̾̆͋̔̈́̚̕̚͠͝͠͝­̛̆̌̍͑̅̍́̾́̚̚͠­̧̡̡̹͖̮͉̥̥̠̥̗̺͖̝͔͎͎̹̬͎̩͔̺͍̬̱͇̹͔͎͍͓̠͚͔̘̣̥̩̼̯̝̫̼̫̫̞͋̆ͅ­̡̧̭̰̮͙̫̣̜̩̻̩ͅͅ­̧̨̨̧̨̡̮̲͍̬̱͓̥̜̲̬͉̳̱͈̩̺̝̣̬̻͕͉͙̹̠͖̝̠͙͎̲͈̟̼͇͓͔̮̫͓͖͜͜ͅ­̧̞̺̲̭͜'̷̄̇̃̈́̈̊̕­̉̃͑̏̉͐̓̇͑̓̃́͌̐̏̒̀̽̎̿̏̄͆̀́́͒̌̓̃̑̇͑̀͛̇̽̂͌͋́̎͘͘͘̕͝͝͠­̛̓̄̀͐̋͑̈̔̃̾̒̒̚̕͝­͊̎̉̉̑̈̾͒̆̓̏͂̄̏̅̿́̀͐͋̎͑̾̉̃͛̈́͒́̓͑̆̾̋̅̎͂͘̕̚̚̕͝͝͝͠͠͝­̡̨͖̯͚̖͎̝͕̩̯̞̫͍̙͗ͅ­̡̡̨͈̟̤̘̙̳̗̖̰̹̯͔͓̗̹̪̝̳̜̭̟͕̰̳͉͙͉̳͍̙͔̲̯̲̗̹̖̱̞̯̖ͅͅͅ­̢̘͉̻͕̭̱̝̦͓̖͓̺̻̜̝͚ͅ­̧̧̢̢͉͖̩̜̻͎͙͔̙̩͙̜̳̜͖̤̖̺͍̝̙͚̻̪͎̞͍̩̙͕̣;̵̒̒̒̓̽̅̆̉̓­̈́̃́̒̊̿͂̊̈́͊̽̿͑̓̽̾̌́͠­̆̑̏͒̎̀͑̄̀̈́̄̍͒̈́̇̋͛̌͐̀̌̉̆̈̃̅̎̐̈́̎̓̊̏͑̽͆̃͘̚͘̕̕̕͝͝­̃͑̃̃́͂̂́̃̓͊́̏̈̽̂͑͑͠͠­̨̨̧̧̨̻̹̪̩̰͔̱̦̘͙͎͕͚̭̻͈͕̯̣͎̫͔̱̯͓̻̩͔͙̙͈̳̜̺̻͉̲̙͜­̨̠̭̯̬͖̳̟̤̞̦̥̜̗̯̦͎̞̬̞̞­̨̻̰͉̙̙̩̳̞͎̟̫͈͉͎̞͔̪͚̗͚͉̗͍̻͇͇͓̮̭̺̫̘̻͓̯̱̫͙̼ͅͅͅ­̧̡͓͇̰͕͖̭͖͓̳̹̣͎̯̹̗̠͚̪̻͜­̨̢̡̖͉͓͚̰̬͎̟̮̠͙̦͕̭̭̭̩̝̮̼̬̯̫͍͕ͅ;̵̋͛̇̃́̅̀͐̎͌͝­̨̘̳̟͖̱̘̜̂̿̈́̋̎͒̉̈́̄̉̓̌͘͜͝­̡̢̧̥͚̹̥̪̰̹̝̮̥̥̫͈̮̖͇̘̞͍͍̮͉̯̘̟͎̭̗̲̱͎̣͓͔͈ͅͅͅ­̢͇͔̖̥̩̮̜̩̦̫̘͕̤;̸̇͆̏̑̔̔͆͒­̛̛̛̎̆̔͌̾̾̇͌̓͑̇̆͌̎̀́̅̄̊͑̑̾̄̄͛̅̈́̎̓̚̕̚͝͝͝͠͝­̛́̎̎̋̍͐̓̾͗́̾͆̀͆͛́̏̈͗͂̚͝͝͝­̰̰̳͇̙̞͈̹̒̅̿̔͛̀̈͗̿͌͂̎̃͑̀̓̅̈̀̐̊̽͊̄͘͘̕͜͠͝͝­̨̢̨͍̯͍̯̬̺̺͈̮̫̫̫͈̥̜͙̙͉͍͜͜͜ͅ­̡̘̹.̷̛̾̉̓͂͊̔̓̿̇̊͒̋́̔̈́̀̎̑̅̎̎̇̿̅́͘͘͝͠͝͝͝­͒̃̅̈́̍̿̿̇̀̈́̒͂̎̀̂̍͛͆̂͛̋͘͘͠͝͝͝­͖͙͍̄͂͒͋̈́͆̏̕͝ͅͅ;̶̛́̍̀́̄̈́̉̎̓̽̂̑̇̅̽͑͗͘̕͝­̒̈̂͊̈́͒̉͛͒̋͗̆̾̃̓͑̀̈́̈́́̆̔̔́̔̚̕͝­̢̫̗̝.̸̈́̈́̋̄͋̆̌͌͋̊͌̍̆̒̑́̽͑̆̒̋͒͆̎̑̃̕͘͘̚­̛̛͊̇̎̄̀̿̇͊͂͌̿̈͑̓̅̅́̾̓̀̆̓̈́͠͝͠͝­̔̃̋̒̈̔̆̋̊̄̈́̇̎̄̾̓͋͆́͑̽͊̋̽̓͊̓̃̎̀͘̕̕͝͝­̀͑̑͋̋̀͂̈̆̂̍́͋͛̔͋̂̀̂̂̽̑̎̔͑͑̋́̚͝­͗̄͛͐͋́̽́͐̇̓̿̂̂̎́̉͌̅̓̍̂̏͆̈́̾̄͛͒̔̾͝͝͝­̡̨͇̣̠͖͍̰̙̰̗̘̺̰̭̘̻̲̱̥͈̎͊̎́͛̏͑͌͝ͅ­̢̧̨̤̫̞̲̲̹͓̙͓̩͓̩͈͍̘͔̫̳̱̻̟͕͕̣͓̥̝̲ͅͅ­̡̧̢̨͖̮͖̺̗̭̟͎̖̟͇̰̦̱̲̙̪̬̘̜̞̤̯͎͜͜ͅͅ­̟,̴̢̧̧̙͉̲̼̻̬͖̜̎̒̊͐̈́̋̏́͂̃͑̂̋̍̒͌͠͝­̧̧̧̭̲̤̬̘̻̗̼̻̠̬͇̦̣͕̗̫̺͕̱͓͚͖̹̳̖̜͜ͅͅ­̡̡̧̧̡̟̳̲̠̖̯̳͈͓̺̲̘̭͕͚͎̼͉͍͙̯̜͚͖͜͜­̡̧̧͍̟̮͈̦̟͇̩̪͔̰̥̩͖̹̥̣̰̤̭͙͉͎̞̟͍̳̹͜͜ͅ­̨̢̡͙͉̩̦͍̭̞̘̣̣̲̻̺̹̳͚̞͈̤̫̳͍̤̤͜ͅͅ­,̸̛̈̈̆̓͂̑̾͗̋͂̊͛́̍̈́͛̅̇͒̈̅̾̍̈́̈́͌̐̓͘͝͝͝­̢̨̧̦̩̯͎͖̟̯͈̯̣̋̉͒̏͝.̶̛̇̍̈́̈́͒́̕͝­̒̋̈́͐͋̀̐̓͆̀͛̈̇̔̅̓͛̌̅͑̒̒̐̒́͛̇͗̋͂̇̍̚̕͠͝­̛̄̑̈́̈͑̔̽̎͐́̍̑̐́̔̍̊̑͐̈́̽̽͘͝͠͝­̞̹̙̖̦̼̜̱͕̝̺̹̅̔͒̆̓̑̀̄͌̄̌̌̋̈́̾̍́̆̎̒͐̃̚̕͜­̦̯̝̬̖̦͈̮̝̟͕̭̻͓͕̳̝̼̯͉̰̘͙̰̬͕͜­̨̨̢̡̢̤̭̣͓͎͇̫͖͉̺̫̼̤͚͎̩̯̺̩͇͎̺̤̳̜͎͍̳̭̻͍͇͜­̨̨̡̠͉͈̩̗̯̙̣̹̩̠̥̻̤͉͉͚͎͍͓͉͜͜­̧̥̪̱̥͍̲̥͇̠̠͓͕̯.̸̛̛͆̏̀͛͛̊̆̇̿͒͐͋̋̎́́͆̀͂̀͠­̡͖̜̰̞̳͉͈̲̜̫͉̼̮̫͎̈́̊̈́͌͒̈́̃̇͝­̧̢̧̨͉̳͕͕̝̳̩̘̼̥̹͙̗̻͎̯͖̦̹͕͖͕̫̞̩̖̘͚̰̰̼̫̣̞͜͜­̡̢͍̭̖͔̹̘̗̗͔͎̩̭̤̗̤̮̺̬̲͓͉̩­̢͍̳͕͖̱,̸̡͙̤̯̭͇̖̟̔̐͒̏̃͊̃̀͒̀̐̒̏̑́͑̔́̾̏̐͑̊̒̓­̥͉͎͇̜̥̘̤͉̩̺̗̩̥̖͓͙̞̖̣̰͜ͅ­̧̫̝͈̹̺͚̘̮̤ͅ.̸̛̎̿̍͐̍͆̉͗̔̆̈́͆̈́̈́̈́͊̂̊̿̽̍̅͗̿͘͝͠͝­̃̀̑̎͗͂̈́͋̿̋̄͐̔̃̒̈́́̑̚͝͠͠­̛̍́͂̋̄̍́͂̏̉̎͊̈́̑̑͐͗̎̒̓̓͋̑͑͋͛͆̓̆̌͛̌̾̿̆̆͂͂̎͘̚͘­̊͗̂̽̇̾͒̈́̀͊̆̾͑͂̉̐̈́̐̈́͝͝­̡̘̲̟͇̹͈̮͉̱͉̘͍͈͕̍͘.̸̢̢̲͇͎͉̤̰̹̪͕̲͉͙̫̰̃̂͂͐́̿͐̓͜­̳̘̙̲͉̣͈̯̳̥͚͚͕͙̱̪̬̪̩̜­̨͉͚͈̣,̴̋̋̿̂̾̔́̌̾̍́̔̍̆́̿̍̑̾̇̈́̔͛̇͆͊̈́̈́͗̋̇̄̈́͘̚̚̚͝­́̑̈́̓̎̂̉̔́̅̏̓̆̍͒̏̿̋͠­̈́͐͌̆́̀̋̔̍͛͊̈́̓̌̂̾͛̒̈̈́̍̅̂̍̅̒̽̂̅̍̿̂̾̆̏̂̒͒̃̾͑̀̎̓̀͝­̟̞̰̘͎̌̄͂̄̔̎́͒̚͘̕͝ͅ­̢̨̡̧̡̨̦̩̣͓̼̠̥̞̳̞̝͍̰̱̹̟̻̬̙̰͖̳̫̹͎̞̮͈̼̱͕͍̪͚̠̬̬̜͙̰̦­̢̢̢̡̨̞̼͉̟͔̱̭͍̫͚̬̬­̣̪̠̠ ̸̡̧̡̟̫̬̲͖̙̯̭͓͚͎͕̳̬̼̭͉̪̹͇͔̭̖̣̬̦̜͕̰͍̰̳͎̗̦͙̣̼͙̻̙̬̤̤̫̩̝͙̹̟̗̳͕̰̅̾̕ͅͅͅͅ­­̡̢͎̩̩̝̜̝̻͕̰̰̙̗͜͜ͅ ̴̛͋͑̈͒̒̋́̓̋͋̒̈̍͗̂̀͌͆̈́́̿̌̿̒́̊̅͐̍̑͊̒̀̊̒͛́̾̿̓̂̐͗̇͒̓͋̃́͂̆̕̕͘͘̕͘͘͘̚͝͠͝­­̛̛̌̌̑̎̾̀̀͗̌̍̎̄̈́͂̔͗̽̈̾̅͊͑̏̄̊͋̽̓́̔̀̎̑̈́̀̽̍́̽̂̑͋̐͒͑͂̉̆̍͆̊̍̒̆̾̀͊̀͘̕̚͘­̓­̢̨̢̧̳̺̖̣̩̺̫̗̹̜̭̤̦̰̘̮͎͚̬̣̫̲̙͖̪͔̖̘̠̖̭͚̺̟̗̬̭̼̘͉̱̏͌͊͐̿͗̐͂̈́͛̆̄̍̉̕͜ͅͅ­͔̻­̧̧̢̜̫͉̜͙̦͕̜̜͕̤̪̰̞͖̟̹̤̭͉̙͉ ̴̛̛̛̌͐̀̽͛̿̀͐͗̉̈́̆̂͛̓̑̐̓͂͛̈̈́̽͌͒̀̈́͆̔̈̅͌̓͌̋͛̏̾́̏͐͋̈́͒͗̅̊̾̍̏̚͘̕͘̕̚̕͠͝͠͝­­̢̛̊̀̀̈̋̀̈́̋̿̂͂͒̄̒̋́̇́̍͒͒̋͊̀̐́̈̏̀̈́͐͑̊̊̃̑͊̅̓̀͋̊͌͆̃̉͊́͋̐̕̕̚̕͘̕͘͠͝͠͠͝­͙­̢̱̜͎̜̫̜̝̦̭̬̺̗͎̲͚̯͚͎͎͉͉̙̙͉͈̞̮̮̮͈̹̭̳̣͉͚̠͖̼̘̥̦̣̮̜̭̰̙̻̞̝̩̬̙͚̻͕͜͜͜ͅͅ­̣̠­̧̧̢̡̧͕̜̯̙̤̟͈͚̙̙̝̖͙̩̦̞͍̪͚̻͍̞̙͈̻͙̙͍̝͈̻͎̺̜̘̳̻̟̗͉͕̙̼͙̮̬͉͚̥̯͚͎͈͜͜ͅͅ­̼̩͉­̡̢̡̢͍̞̣͇͔̞͙̲͈͕̗̻̙̭͔̺̥̬̜͎̻̞̯͎̜͎̠͎̺̻͜͜ ̶̢̡̢̨̨̨̢̨̲̱̲͚̳̦̮̣͉͙̻̘̻̝̞̳̩͉̤̳̭̯͓̻̝̩̘̖̠̰̻̬͓̻͈̠̙̤̤͓̣̯̫͕̲̼̮̖̰̼͙̬̉̏͜͜­­̧̖̻̯͍̩̗͕̱͇̤̯̳̘͈̻͙̗͜ ̴̛͉̻͑͂͋̇̿̐̾̆̾̊̅͐̿͌͛͛͆̈́̈́̈́̍̅̎̾̂̒̿͛̾́̇͛̅͗̂͛͗͗̈́̾̀͊̉̎̊̓̀̐̎̕̚̚̚̚͠͝͝͠͝͝͝­­̢̡̡̨̢͓̜̣͙̯̯̩̳̫̤̙̖͔͚̹̹͍̺͍̙̳̖̲͙̖͓̹̯̪̦̱̭̳͎̪̝̰̤̯̬̯͚͕̰̺̱̗͔̠͉̻͓̜̣̫̞̬͜ͅ­̡­͎͖̣̠͚͕͍̦͔̤̱͔̥̪̳͓͖̺͍̼̗͉̝ͅͅ ̵̨̛̛̮͉̬̜͕̥̜̠̣̺̠̯̬͌͊̂̽̀̉̅̓͆̂̇̈́͑͒́̈̌̑̌͐́̓͆̅̒̍̏̾̾͂͐͛̽̍̐́̈́̈́́̄̀̚͜͠͝͠͝ͅ­­̧̨͔̘̻͈͔̘̞̲͓̟̹͙̼̟̣̫̱̘̰͉̥͎͙̝̞͉̯͈͈̜̺̺̲̫̟͔͖̫͍̠͍͔̰̙̠̯͓̦̫͖̦̖͚ͅ ̸̨̢̡̨̛̻̙̭̝̹̠̣͎͉̥͍̼͍̋̊̄̄͑̈́̀̀̋̈́̓͋̊̐̿̌̀̋͊̈́̒̂͒͆̐̇̿̊̾̽̀̐͊̔̒͑͋̉̔̈̓͝͝͝͠ͅ­­̧̨̢̨̡̡̧̲̙̝͔̥̭̯͈̩̥̣̼̞̟͈̬̙̘̟̻̬͈͎̖͎̱̹̬̯̥͍͖͙̱͚̰̘̳͓̳̪̦̭̹̬̝̮̙̜̫͍͜͜͜͜͜ͅ­͕­̧̫̞͔͎͙̙̦͇̙̞̩͎̰̦͎͔̠͓̲͚̖̖̯̻̜̣̺̠̯̼̩̩̼͖̺̼͖̗͓͓̳͍͚͙̯̝̻̩͖̥̪̙̞͕͖̣̣͜ͅͅͅͅ­̫̮­̠ ̵̛̛̛̍̐͂̇͊͊͗̂͗̒̇̆̔̒̀̉̂͆̂̽̓̒̑̎̓̔́̔͑̆̅͑̐̉̐́̏̇̓̒̐̐͆͛͌̅̎́͗͛̊̍͛̓̑̐̕͝͝͠͝­­̢̼̤͖̯͎̺̙͙͉͓̐̈́̂͑͗̅̆̿̋̅̓͗̂̅̀́́̿̒̀̽͊̈̋͆̂́̎͑́͑͊̂̔͒̀̎̿̀͛̌̐̽͂̄͗̉̚͘͜͠͠͠­ͅ­̢̧̢̭̹̫̝̹͉̣͎͚̙̝͚̬̱͈̪̹̘̙̝̫̜͖̗̻̙͙̦̥͕̘͖̥͚̪͇͙̼̟͉͔̜̙͖̭̦̤̪͔̭̱̯̦̬̙͇̠͔̩͜­̪̞­̢̢̢̡̡̠̣̠̘͚̠̞͓͚̹͉̬̟̥͇͕͉͙̤̹̗̜̙̹͈̟̟̬̣͇̼̠̥͚̤̬̲̭̰̞̳̩̤͇̺̪͔ ̸̛̾́̆̒̈́̊̊̉͌͗̽̾̐̓̈́͌͊̓̃̎̒͛̐͗̅̔̓̒̒͋̀̿̆̆̽͆̈́̈́̾͑̎̿̓̆̐͒̀̑̇̓̆̂̀͂͘̕̕͝͝͝͝͝͝­­̧̪̼̖͕̣̘̤͚̯̤̗̻̹͎̣̲̲̝͒͑͛̀̊̏̆͘ͅͅ ̶̛̟̩̝̌̍̃͆͑͊̆͒̏̋́̽̎̍͗̈́̍͂̀̋̈̓̈̇͒̑́͐̋͂́̎̄̃̀̋̆̌̈́͒́͊͋͛͆̑̆̋̾̉̈́̋͊̂̚͘͝͝͠­­̨̨̡̢̧̧̡̡̢͍̱̩̣̪̜͈͓͕͕̱̮̫̜̼͚͔̘̲̻̣͓͎͔̖̱̪͎͔̖̠͇̹͙͚̩͈̱̼̖͍̥̙͓͎̘̥͈͍͎̻̥̜͜ͅ­͙­̧̡̺̖̪̲̤̜̝̮̟͚̟̮̤̪͕̬͇͚ͅ ̴̢̭͎̫̼̺͎͚̟̙͚̜̠͖̿̂̃͂͑̓̓͌̐̈́͊̊̄̅͑̈́̉͐̊̊̎̋̒̒̓̔͆͐́̑͌̆̒̈́͐̓̉͐́̋͌͋͌͒̄̍͌̕͘͝­­̢̨̨̯̥͓̼̗͎̝̱͇͇͓̥͓̟̤̦̙͔̼̘̘͈̝̣̲̠͉̦͕̤͚̘̖̹͉̼̫͈̦̭̲͓̞̮̭͔͖̠̲͖̞̞̪̣̮̩͜͜͜ͅͅ­͇­̨̢̡̨̡̨̺̱̪͎̩̳̳̭̥͔͖̩̙̞͎͖̱̭͔̼͇̯̠͖̪͇̣̯̖̥̻̙̟͖͈͈͖̪͙͓̻̳̦͔̺͍̗̯͇ͅ ̵̢̛̪̯̟̜̖̫͕̺̲͆́̄̃͑̎̈̋̾͛̆̿̐̈̾̌͂͛̒̓̐̑̉̿̆̅̽̅̓̀͗͛̒̀̑͗̾̈́͒̄̾̂͒͗̈́͛̽͘͘͘͝͝͝­­̨̢̢̧̧̧̮͈͔̤̩̜̠̘̖͉̝̘͈̪̦̝̳͚̖̻̭̻̭̘̮͈͎̰͙̫̠͓͕̥̫̫̟̩̜̬̲̙̮̙̺̦̼̼͕̦̯̙̖͔̪̫͜͜­̻­̧̡̧͇̝͔̰̯͉̹̪̝̲̟̫̠̩̞̥̝͖̟̦̻̹̰͕̼͖̩͇͓͓͙͚̲̠̗͇̖̯͙̼̫̳̫̭̙̻̝̬͈͖̯̫̺̲̺͓̦̦̰͜­̨̭­̧̡̧̧̺̜͎͎̳̫̬̼̰͉̰̱͙̖̰̠͖͎̗͎͓̬̣͈̞͚̭̻͜͜ͅ ̸̡̢̨̨̡̥͈̠͈͙̲̩̣̳̪̜̠̯̮͚͓̣̱̮͚̪̭̫̯͙̖̪̮̩̯̠̝͕̟̰͎͚̘̝̠͔͆̍̈̈́͒͒̌͐̓̓͋͒͜͝͝͝͝͠­­̡̙̫̱̦̞̝̠͜ͅ ̵̢̻̪̙̥̤̮̦͖̣͙̮͊̇̂̂̑͛̏̌̒̀̑́̆̔͑̎̀̀͐̔͗͐͛̅́̀͂͐̔̈̀̔͑̃̒̂̈́̑͂̈̕̕̚̚̚͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅ­­̧̨̧̢̡̡̧̨̡̧̢̨̬͕̦͎̣̞̲̜̜̬͎̫̰͔̫̞̙͈̣̟̟̱̙̘̲̬̜̠͖̦̳͚͇̻̺̜͓̦̳̝̪͎̬̘̺̤͇̠̩͜ͅͅ­͓­̧̧̢̨̡̢͎̼̗̳͉̳̻̯̲̳̰͔̠̪͎̳͓̬̦͓̼̘͍̝̜̖͓̫͔̮̳͇̱͚̪̯͎̲̟̫̪͔͚̱̖͍̩̲̥̰̗̙̼͜͜͜ͅ­̮͚­̧͖͈̪͇̜͉̗̗̠͓̺͈̞̜̬̦̯̘̮̦͜ ̶̛̛̼͛̆̏̾̾̄̅̄͊̆̂̍̂̈́̒̾̑̉͗̽̊̾̑̂͑̅̿͊̒̈́̄̀͂̑͊̈̾̔̽̐̉͗̈̊͛́̈́̋͌̂͊̀̈͋̎̀̚͘̚͝͠­­̢̧̢̢̟̻̼̲͍̘̫̰͎̣̜̣̗̙̞̬̝̮͖̯̹͔̫͙̳͇̤̝̥͕͕͔̦̞̜͍̮̭̗͍͕͙͔̣͈̜̜̠͈͔̼̪̯̖̭̫͜͜ͅͅ­̣­̖̟̭̩̰ ̸̛̛̎̀̾̽̈́͆͗̄̏̀̂̾̄̉̆̊̆͋͒̀̏̆͑̈́́̅̍̓̐̇̈́̋̾̒̓̈̽̍̈́̄̿̈̂̂̿̔̌̓́̊̓͒͊͗̚͘̕͝͝͝͝͝­­̛̀́̐͐̒̆̑̀͑̽̅͋̽̄̓̀̃̾̽͒͛̃̅̈̀̂̉̐̉͋̃̐̋̇̋͊͐̿́̔̓̒̓̑͋̉̀̌͛͆͆͒̐͆͘̚̕̚̕͠͝͝͝­̳­̧̧̢̨̡̡̨̠̙͍̠͉͕͍̺͔̭̲̖̻̻̮̱͎̲͎̤̺͉̪͍̣͇̠̯̮̻̭̗̥̗̦͚̲̙̱̯̟̤̭̱͓̱̯̭͖̺͚̗͜ͅͅͅ­͎̯­̧̡̧̧̧͍͈̤̝̘͇͈̫̺̘̳͖̫̼͉̺̭̝̙͍̥̰̻̻͓̖͉͖͇͚̮̪̳̞͈͔̻̦̹̪̩̣͖͕̯̗͚͎̹̱̭̬͉̱̯͇ͅ­͙̩̯­ ̸̛͗̃͂̉́̍̒̅̅̏̽͒̽̈̈́̊̑̀̽̽͗͋̽̄̈́̌̍̔͒̔̓̉̋̃̃͑͋̔̽͊͂̒̄͑͆̓̓͊̑̽̓̉̄̉̉̍̕̚͝͝͝͠͝­­̧̛̛̟͍̱̪̣̘͍͕̻͔͇͇͕̙͇̪̙̖͎͖͉̞̻͙̈́̊̅̾̽̓̽̾͛̾̓̇͊͂̾̾͊̈́͑̌͐̾̋̔̾̌̿̈́͐́͛̕̕͘͜ͅͅ­̻­̢̧̨̱̤͇̗̮̱̲͔͎̤̙͇̣͖̰̲̠̹̩̙̠̹̤̮̣͖̰̜͎̪̬̻͇̫̙ͅ ̷̧̢̢̨̢̤̲͉̗̭̬̪͚̻̬̠͉͉̳͚͙̳̙̪̪̣̼̮̹͇͈̟̲̗̦̫̖̲̳͉͔̘͉̩͙̫͔͚̭̐̆̋̄͒̊̋̒̓͂̿͠͠͝ͅ­­̢̨̢̡͚̥͕͉̬͕͙̳̭̙̲̗͇̥͎͕̭̘̼̫̰̙̮̤͖͈̠̰͙̲̳͚̙̲̮͚̖̮͖̩̘͍̟͜͜ͅ ̷̧̧̘̞̬̬̣̻͎͈̔̾̒̄̓̃͂̔̊̂̿́̆̕͘ ̸̛̐́̿̉͑́̽͗̓̉̎͗̍̉̀͐̽͊́̉͗̊̏̽̃̉̑̿̾͐͒̍̇̓̆̓̈́́̈̔̿͒̆̈́̀̐̊̀̎̄͛͗̈̂̌̓͛̄̕̕͝͝͠­­̈́̉̒̂̆̅̍̿̈́̓̂͌̊̃̒͐̍̊̈́̇̀̀̍͑͗̉̊͛̄͑́͒̏̓̾̾͋̈́̌̀̐̃̀̌͊̿͑̾̑̚̕͘̕͘̚͘͘͝͝͝͝͝͠͠­͋­̡̩̝͇͖̺̯̹̹̭͎̙̜̺̠̖̜̙͈̫̖̩͎͔̺͙̯̭̙̮̬̆̉͊͋͜͝ͅͅ ̴͓͓̻̙͇̟̯̜̻̠̬̻͑ͅ ̶̧̧̧̢̧̳̌̈́̓͌͐͒̏̉̇̿̅͊̒͝ ̸̰̻͎͇̣͛ ̷̛̳̪̯̰̤̞͇͓̞̼͔͇͑̌̏̋̀̔̔̏͝ ̷͉̖̥̣͈͔̜̬̑͊⾐̷̠̰̠̹́̚͢ ̸͖͓̲͚̰̱̟͕̈́̆̅̅́̏̌̀͌̍̀̾̕ ̷̧̢̙̻͎̥͈̘̻͎̜͔͔͎̭̞̔͗͌̅̂̽̃̇̂͠͝ ̵̰͐̃͗͑̈́͂̽̂̈́͠͝͝͠ ̴̨̨̛͎̘̻͈͎̱̬́̆̽͛͒̒̏̽̋̐̑͝͝ ̵̥̘̹̹̐̾̒̓ͅ ̶̘̬̗̓͌́̽̈̃̀̐̆̓̆͆̕̕͠”


My body            

              
           collapses to its  

      knees—




             not in surrender—    
just in                            



              fatigue.


  But I feel his hand.

Buried beneath             crushed coral       and brittle fragments      of digested        memories.

I                          
reach.


“­𝒀̸̮͇̟̞͎̘̥̦̙̟̪̓𝕆͘𝕌Ǵ̴̢̢̛̖̯̤̱͕̲̯̟𝒜̶̥͓͇͎̳̻̞̜͓͑𝓥𝔼ʜ̵𝐢𝕄𝔼𝕍𝓔𝖱𝙔𝐓̶ℍ𝕀𝓝𝙶!—𝐀𝓑̡­𝓞𝓓𝒀̴𝓣̴𝓗𝖆𝙏𝓒𝔸𝓃𝓢𝕋𝖆𝓨!—𝓛OO̷̹̘̗̗̰𝕂𝒜𝕋ᴹ𝔼𝒍𝕆𝕆𝓚Ａ𝙏𝙈𝑬!—𝕐͘𝗈𝐔’ᴿ𝕰Ｈ𝔼𝕽𝔼!—𝙁𝓘𝓝𝔄𝓛𝓛𝕐ʜᴇ𝕣­𝐞!—𝕔𝕆𝕄𝕖̵͔̲̳͇͎͉̗͉̜̎𝓑𝐀𝐂ᴋ—𝑊𝔼𝓬𝔸𝓃𝓑𝕖𝕎ʜ𝔬𝓛𝐄!”


She                doesn’­t understand. She              never                   will.
That I am whole                  because I remember who I chose                            instead of her.

She thrashes.
                       The ocean buckles.                
                                        ­­    I am almost crushed              
     beneath her weight.
My ribs strain.
                                      My lungs ache.
                                                           ­  My vision fractures.
                 She shrieks.


“𝒀̶̳͕̪̙̻̟̙͓̽𝓞̶̱̲̱̠̘̳̳̥̥̎𝕌̷̘̠̠̘̥̥̬̦͛G̶̘̟̞̯̟̮̫̩̥̋͜𝒜̶̠͙̟̮­̫̥̳͇̬͑𝓥̵̛̟̟̳̬͖͖͋𝔼̷̢̛̲̱̥̬̱̝̱̦𝕋̴̳͚̠͎̰̳̯̹̳̕𝕙̵̼̫̙̻̬͂𝕖̷̛͖̙̪̖̰̝̰̰̕𝙈̷̢̜̥­̙̙̤̪̽𝕎𝓘𝕟𝓖𝒮!𝓨̸͔̖̘̥͉̞͒𝖮̴̛̞̥̻̱̤̒𝕌̵̢̢̖̙̤͈̙̞̎𝓁̸͖̥̯̥̲̜̯̿𝓔̵̤̮̬͖͉͎͍͍̐𝓣̶̨͍­̫͓̱̞̩̩̏𝓣̴͔̠̳̫̰̝̪͉̱͘𝕙͘𝒆̷̡̛̼̮̤͕̤̠͈̼̓𝕞̶̢̛̲̜̲̰̮̘̜̹̾𝔽𝓛𝕐fᖇ𝐎𝐌𝕐ᴼ𝕌𝓡𝕒𝙍𝓜𝓢—̶̳­͖̯̺̬̳̦͖̮̋𝓐𝙉𝔻̸͍̝̯̬̼̖̲̦̼̽𝓨̷̪̮̞͎̳̲̜̲̓𝓞̶̼̯͚̠̘̠̫̐𝓤̴̛̘͓͚̤̱̟̓𝔾̴̟͓̪͙̟̰͕̔𝔸­̸̢̳̤͕̳̳̦͒𝔙̷̛̪̩̘̩̗̰͌𝓔̴̲̪̗̮̪̺͇͖̠̚𝕄̶͈̰̼̳̝̞̠͎͗𝔼̶̢̡͈̫̪̩̱̞̈𝓝𝓞̶̡̢̨̹̫̬͙͖̎­𝕋𝕙𝒊̶̼̥̘̖͙̥͝𝒩𝔾!”


Her                      voice                  
   ­   breaks.
                           Almost breaks…

                                me.


“𝓘̴͚͚͇͉̜̖̅̐̒𝓗̷̛̳͍̖­̻̟̓𝓐̶̲̞̯̗̦͇̅𝕍𝒆𝙉𝕆𝓢𝓚𝕀𝒩!—𝓝𝒪𝓗𝓐𝓝𝕕𝕊ᴛᴏʰ𝓞𝕝𝔻ʸ𝕆𝕌W𝙄𝕋𝓗!—𝓝𝕆𝓕𝓐𝓒𝔼—𝓝𝕆𝓛𝓘𝓟𝕊ᴛᴏ𝓚𝕀𝕊𝕊𝓨𝕆­𝕌!—𝓘H̵𝓐𝖁𝕖𝒪𝓝𝕃𝓨𝕎𝓐𝕍𝑬𝕊—𝒜𝓝𝓓𝓨𝕆𝕌—𝒴𝕆𝕌𝓗𝕆𝕃𝔻𝕙𝕀𝕄.—𝙃𝕀𝙈!”


She’s jealous                  of what she herself                   refused to accept. I can’t             transform an                            unwilling soul.
                              As much      as she     claims       to want the     result,                                            
she refuses to                  trust,
                                      ­        to share control,
to let me share with her,                                         the process.
It’s not that I withheld the opportunity,      
                                              ­she was simply unwilling.
Transformation is a divine experience.
                                         It can be neither         forced from nor       forced upon.              

                But she cares not                                 for reasons, cares not

for mutual agreement.                   She just wants

                                      to take,

but she cannot take    

                                                  from me.


                              I can’t let her                            distract me    
with                this
                                 ­                   slander.


I­ close my hands
around him.                    


“⩌̴̹̼̮̟̑̕͘ⴷ̹͛⎔͇̻̾͢𝛫̼̞͙̾̚⫯̴̛̦̪̗͈̇͒ ̸̢̨̢̢̡͖͓̩̜̘̣͓̫̗̺̺̲̬̗̠̤͎͙̜̩̙͓͚͇͔͕̱̜͉̭̬̳͍̩̪̝͔̓̍̿̈́̀́́͌̔̆̂͆̑̐̂̍̔̕̚͜͜ͅ­̧̟͎̦̤͙̼͚̫̙̯̤͖ ̶͙͕͕̮͒̂̊̾͌̒̚ ̴̨͓̘̗̣͎̭̣̣̼͇̱͕̠͑̈́̀̑̋̅̀̀̈́́̕͘͜ ̶͔̝̭̞͍̯̠͔̫̯̭͉͔̘̲̥̯̗̙͔̜̙͈̻̞̥̫̖̮͕̖̔̀̐͋͆͗͂͂͒̂̀̒̃̎͋̂̿͛̍͗̋̀̊̈͌͝͠͠͠͠͠ͅͅ­̢̮̦̩̝̠̝̯͕̞͈̰͎̫̰͈̘̹͎̯̭͜ͅ ̷̛̘͔͎̘̻̦̄̓͌͊̓̅͒̾̈́̔̈́͑́̾̈̎̀̈́̅͛̾̾̂̿̇̈͐̍̄̌̄̒̉̐̽̏̊͑̀̅̄́͒̽́͘̚͘̕͘͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅ­̢̧̢̡̢̢̧̳̲͎̞͚̥̺͎̰̘̩͉͔͔̟̞̜̼̻̠͍͖̻̳͔̩͈͚̟̳̻̜̻̗͇̦̼͔͚͔̯̭̜͚̺͜͜ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̢̢̢̛̼̤̦̫̹̰͙̼͉̠̩̤̦̲͖̹̙̩̗͙͉̜̟̱̝̤̦̝̘̭̹͈̋͋̾̍̅̀̂͑̅̊̍̂̉̒̈́̎̃̽̇̊̍̕͜͝ͅ­̨̨̢̤̙̻̦̟̝̼̫̦͍̬̹͚̭̬̲͇̙̲͉͍̮̤͇͉͈̦͜ ̸̋͛̑͂͗̑͋̌̓̓̂̈́͐̓̈́͑̂͛͌͋̒̈̓̅̈́͐̾̏̈́̀̈́̈́̅̓̓͒͐̉̃̔̔̈́͑͗̀̇̈́̀̍̕͘͘̚̕͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͠͠͠­̧̧̧̡̢̰̺̙̤͕͚̬̗̞̰̮̼̰̺̦̲̻̖͖̳͖̱̹͖̱̱͚͍̯̰̱͚̳̝̙̳̘̖̮͚̹̫̪̯̖̰͖͉̻̣̥̫̲̮̜͔̤͚͜ͅ­̨͎̰̯̺̯͙̺͔̳̹ ̴̢̯̳̟̟͓̝̞̺͓͖̗̦̜̹̖́͊̒̒͒̓̉̒̔̔̀̌͋̄̎̅̑̄̈́͗͗͂͌̾̆̿͆̋̀̄̀̽̌̃̉̔̍̀͋͊̽̾͗̾͘̕̚͝­̨̨̨̙̖̻̺̬͓̮͔̜͉̹͎̞̹̜̥̩̖̩̰̤̥͔̣̺̰̞̘̮͜͜ ̴̧̨̠̭̻̳͎̣̥̮̰̻̳͖̰͎͖̬͂̈́̀͂͌̀̅͐̃̋͗̃́̇̄͂͋̽̉̅̈́̐̀̿̆͋̐̇̇͑̈́͗̃̾̊̀̔̿̕͘̚̚͘͜͠͝­̨̧̜͕͕̯͓͙͓̟̤͕͍͈̹̺͚̖̳͍̲͓̦̹͖͙͖̰̳̠̗̖͙̭̻̺̘͇͖̖̘̖͓̳̺̗͜ ̶͚̪̖̍͒̓̽̿̈́̊̀̉͋̿́̓̈̈́̏̓̓̔̀̄̃̊̅͂̈́̂̊̀̄͆̋̓̍͑͌͒̊̇̉͑̈́̅̋͊̔̔̔͆͋͐̈́̍͂̕̕͜͠͠͝͝­̢̧̨̢̗̠̤̞̙̯̜̫̜̞̗̼͔͎̼͍̺̜̻̭̟̤̘̥̗̺̮̟͉̗͖͍̳̩̮͖̤̠̙̮̭̦̭̱͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̬̌́̎̂̒̑̅̿͗̆̽̋̄̾̒̿̈̊̊̋̓͌̀̅̇̏̍͆͛́̐̃̎͗̊͌̃̃̌̋̑̀͌̅̀͗̒̉͐̅́͗̂͋̈̂͛̏̆͝͠­̢̨̡̢̨̡̢̧̢̡̡̧̨̨͚͍͓͔͚̟͙̤͕̖̦͓̥̳͖̻̭͓͓̩̖̪̘͕̭̰̘̬͙͍̫͚̠̬̜̻̼̫̩͖̠̳̩͖̫̯͓̗͍̳͜­̧͚͙̻̩̥͕̗̗̺ ̸̢̨̛̮̺̺͖̗̣͚̺͛̊̑͑͋͊̂̓́͊̌͗̀́͋̂̇̆̑̒̑́̈̌̈͂̇̓̐̿̀̀̄̕͘͘͘̚͠ ̷̧̢̨̛̛͖̤͔̳̦̣̤͕̜̳̬̣̙̪̱̳̭̹͓̦͇̥͊͒́͋̋̂̾͑̋͋̔͋̈̇̃͒̓̔͌͑̉̈̃͐̋͐̆̅͘̚͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅ­̡͉͇͎̞͉̱̮͓͕͍͉͜ ̸̡̛͙͙̩̩͓̫̀̐̍̒̋́̈́̈́̃̀͌̌̋̑͐̔͊̔͂͆̓͌͊̈́͆͒̌͂̃̏̎̾̏̅͊͘͘͘͜͝͠͝ ̵̢̨̛̛̮̤̦͈̣͙͕̪̭͎͎̰͙̤̝̲͙̬̬͕͕͍̝̬̦́̀̃̈́̅̈̓̆́́̈́͆͋̋̆́͆̈́̅̐̈̆͒̽́͒̂̂́͊͜͝͠͝͝­̧̢̧̧̳̟͉̻̯̘̬̖͖͔͕̺̦̮̪ ̴͍̪̩͈͋̐̉̆̒͋͗̌͂̍̀̓̊̄̈̑̎̄̓́̎̓̂̑͐̈́͐̈́̉͋͊͝͝ ̵̛̣̤̓͑̎̈́̈́̉̃̋͊́́̒͌͒̃̏̃̒̄͐̔͌͋͛̕͝͠͠ ̴̡̛̱̟͉̬͇̼̺̖̀̒̓͂̀̾̆̂̄̇̇̓̍́̉̅͋̎͑̏̌̓̍͊̋̓̂̀̎̈́͒̑̂̀͊͛̈́̇́́̓͆̇͘͘͘͘͝͠͝͝͝͠͝­̧̖̩̪͇͓̟̞̣̘̥̱͖̱̝̟̝͓̤͙͔̼͉̲̥̫̪̠͉̳̩̺̱̯̫͜͜͜ͅ ̵̛͐̆̆̅͛̀͛̂̎̐̍̃̎̋͗̍́̑͂͌̓̔̽̀̾̀̑̽͛͂͗̈̾̈͑͛̔͊͛̀̈́̅̐̔̈́͂̓̀̈́̂͆͌̓̃͋̀̓̀͊̕͝͠͠­̨̨̧̢̡̡̢̰͇͈͙͉̗̠͍̮͖͕̟̘͚͙͔̱̞̜̰͉͉̗̫̦̼̖͖̙͔̗͍̟̲̘͎̪͍̺̦̝͚̹̥̹̈͗̽̎̾̿̏̍̽̕͜ͅͅ­̧͔̣͕̮͙̺̱ͅ ̶͕̭̪̥̗̼̑̑̍̍̈́́̅̐͊̔̓͑͊̅͑̃̀̐͗̔͆̆͊̍͂͛̔͘͠ ̷̧̞̻̯͉̭̖͕̳̖̼̭̭͈͓̹͉̯̩͉̤̀̀̾̿͌̽̌̈́͛͝͠ͅͅ ̶̡̡̡̢̢̞̱͓̭͓̖̠̳̹̬͍͖͇̟̤͙̤͓̳̞̳͍̘̙̯̦̪̗̮͙͖͎̮̞̜͈̝͕͉̱͚͇̪̘͓̖̹͈͛̎̄͛̅̃͜͝͝ͅͅ­̡̡̢̬͓͚͍̦͙̮̘̖̱̪̻̼̳ͅ ̷̧̛̯͉̺͓̤͕̗̘̗̣̝͎͉͉͉͑̇̊̑͛͂̓̇͗̃͗̌́̈́̎̒̋̽̊̒̐͒́̈́͂̀͘̕̕̕͠͝͠ ̸̧̢̢̛̲̣̦̫͈̝̰̭͍̹̗̻̝̲̾̒̀̆̐̾͌̊̂̇̋͂̉͊̈́̒̋̈́̾͛̆͐̋̇̍̆͐̔̆͊̀̀̈́̽̐̊̎̈̕͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅ­̡̧̨̢̢̠̹̙̻̯̯̼̤̰̼̰͇̱̲̮̮̜̻̮͈ ̵̨̢͍̩͚̥̯̫̹̥̻̝͖̪̻͚̖́͊͒̋̃̾̅͌̏̓̽̀̅͌͑̂̽͑́̂̊́̕̕̕͝͝͝͠ ̸̧͔̜̪̱̦͉͚̪̙̹̝̙̝͓̰̝͈͗͋̅̐̋̂̐̆̐́̓̿͐̄̄̽̒͒̍͆̄͐̓̋̉̌̇̿̈́͑̐̈́̄̽̆̽͊͆̎͘͝͝͝͝͠͠­̡̧̧̧̡̨̢̨̧̧̘̣̳͙̣̤̳̤̠̞͚̘̦̫̤͉̦͙̩̮̲̰̼̼̣͚̼̬̹͙̻͚̰̞͕̟͎͉̫̺̜̟͎̝͖͔̰͇̪͉͜ ̸̧̗̪͎̲̲͓̤̳̤̝̟̥̜̗̜͎̆͆́͂́̉̍͐̀̎̏̈́̊̊̆̃̈́̉̏͋̇̒̌̕͜͝ͅ ̶̨̧̧̢̪̩̟̤̰̦̺̰̳̟̼̟̟̹̰̳̝̞̫̮̜͕̝̝͖̻̙͈̜͉̘͔̲̲̯̝̜̗̘͇̗̭̮̞̺̬͖̱̯͉̯̑̔͂͆͊̀͜ͅͅ­̨̦̝̭͎̱̞̳̯̺͇̮͜ ̶̨̡̨̨̛̛̰͎͇̳̫̲͇̥̠̤̭̟̰̥͙͈̲͇̺͔͚̭̦͕͒̏͑̈̒̑̋͋́͛͂̽̔̂̊̇̊̏̄̽͛͑̽̉̓̚̚̕̚͘͠͝͝͝­̺͙̩̺̦̣̝̺͔̳̮̜͉̭̝̟͚̮͎͈͔̜͍ ̴̡̡̧̛̞̬̻̘̟̤̘̪͉̱̥̥̫͇͍̦͚̦͚̮̹̓̀̈́̓́͆̈́̇̉̿́̉͗̐͊̀̀̈́͂̑̈́̄̍̊͌̄̔̅̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̛̹̆̎̓̽́̋̍̅͗̑̐̔̐́̄͋͊̊͒͐̂͂̆̍͊̓̊̈͂̑̾̏͆̈́̀̋̓̆̎̂̂͑͗̿́̅̉̏̉͛̍̊͘͘͘̕̚̕̚͘͠͝­̡̨̧̡̢̠̰̘͙̲̖͚͓̪̗̙͔̗̬̳̗̬͓̫̮̻̰̣̭̘̖͓̳̲͖̜̖̯̜̯̖̥͈̝͇͓͈͓̟̟͔̯̰̯̭̲̝͖̥͖͕̼͜ ̶̛̛̛͑̈́̿̆̂͌͒͒͊̅̋̋̅̈̑̒͋̓̌̎̔̀̂͛̐̍̇͋̔̈́̎̌̈̈́̈͐͑̍̆̓͋͑̿͛͂̑̊͌̑͐̎̚͘̕͘̕̕̚̚͝͠­̛̛͇̖̉̽͑̅́͒̐̋̈́ ̴̡̨̛͈̗̤͍̙̲͔̫̹͙̜̩̠̯͖̟̫̺̹̞̻͔̪̦̗̠̭̹͍̺̲͕̦̙̼̈́̅͌̾͛̔̅̋̈́͗̌͒̾͋̊̈́̾̄̍͌̌̃̕͝͝͝­̖̹͜ ̸̢̨̨̦̬̮̫̰̜͈͙̞͚̪͓͓̣͓̻̠̪̝̥̮̘̲̥̬̺͉͉̯̘͕̹͍̾͐̓̏͌̈̓͂̚͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̛͔̼̺͖̘͚͉͂̑̋̎̓̅̏͒̈́͌̊̒̂͌̄̓̋́̈́́̍́͗̈́͌͗̑̈́̊̋̇̀͗̉̄̆̎͆͑̉̿̐̄̈́̈̆̑͘̕̕̕̚͘͝­̡̼̼͉̮̩̱̹̖͙̩̜͓̬̯̘̹̝̼̝̟͔̯̮̫̞̫͚̻̰̳͎̻̬̠̪͈ ̶̢̥͎̩͕̟̰̞͖͎̰̥̻͕͙̞̲̙̯͓̟̯̩̏͂͗͌̃͒̂̎̔̀̍͊̓̎̐̊͛͌̈́͐̾́̚̕͝͝͠ ̷̧̡̨̬̙̤̭̪͉͉̩̲̟̪̼̩̰̣̦͎̦͍͚̣͙̬̺̹̝̘̜̬́͜ͅͅ ̷̨̢̳̻̮͇̹̠̙͓̠̞̭̲͙̩̘̪̙͉̟̙̭̺̫̫̰̠͚̞͉̤̙͖͉̺̹̭̥̔̏̑̀̽̏͑̄̈́̆̄̅͑͂̋̀́̒̆͒̚̕͜͝͝­̡̨͍͈͚̹̪̞̬̜̥̤̯̫̞̯̯̥̗̯̜̗̥͍͖̞̻͓̝̜͔̖͚͍̻̗̼͜͜ ̶̛̛͕̱̻͕̱̠̂̆͗͗̆̈́̓̊͆̒̐͑̉͊͌͌̐̊̽͂̿̿͑͂̊̑͋̿̂̆̍͐͗̈́͒͒͒̾̌̎͌̑̔̾̋̽͐̒̀̈́͌̕͘͜͠͠­̨̡̨̢̣̘̩̭̟̣̠̥̬̟̳̬̲̝̲̼̻̯̻̞͔̗̺̹̮͇̝̣̜͔̹̠̙͓̬̩͕͚̪̰͎̱̝̝̠͈͕̺̭͓̹̭̫̲̣̹͔̠͜͜ͅ­͚̦̗͙̰͓ͅ ̴̡̪̮̘̟̱̪̗̱̖̩̹̗̘̯̖̘̮͒́̔̍̊̐́̊̍͑̑͊͑̂͑͊͂̆̌̎̈́̏̄̉̏́̂̍̇͛̍͗́͆͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅ ̶̧̧̢̡̢̛͓͚̤̳̹̣͕̙͔̣̟̝̮̟͛̇͂͒̈́̈́̇͐̾̇̈́̑͗̿̒̿̍̏͆͛̔̐̀̀́́̀͆͋̑́̃̀̇͗͘̚͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅ­̧̡̤̦̼̗̣̜͍̭̫̗̩̫̠̱͍̻̼̘̳͕̞̺͇̲͖̣̭̱̬̣̞̳̟̜͙̣͓͓̘̺͇̠̺̱̩̹̟̗͍̥ͅ ̵̛̛͚͕̝͎̯̱̪͚̼̜̠̍̓̂̔͆̈͗̏̉̉̅̈́̀̇̄̔̇̐͆̀́̐̊͗͒̓͂̏̆́̈́̑̀́́̈́̎̊̍͑̓͛͋͒̉̕͘͠͝͝͠­̭̭͇̦̮̟̳̣̳͙̟̮̮̹̩̪͜ ̸̢̢̡̨̢̡̡̬̠̗̟̮̩̗̗͇̮͚̹͈̜̪͙͍͈̘̮̥̻̜͕͓̦̞̥̯̯̠͎͚̮̭̦̩͛̅͂̒͛̾̿͋̎̏̍͗̈́̂͋̓̈̇͘ͅ­̨̱̦͓̗̬̪͕̬̹̤̰͈̙̜ ̵̡̨͕͇͕͎͕̲͔̯̹͍̩̲͍̥̜͓̰͍̼̥̙͔͇̺͉̜͍̫͙̝͖̯̙͆͛̒̀̈́̌́̎̇̍͐̄͝͠𐎿̃­̷̯̮̙͚̤̬̩͇̪” “⻗̵̴̢̬̞̳̆̽𝙃⩣̻̤̖͓̳̬̼ͧ͐𝕗̰̟̦͍͇̪̲͕͎̍̒̍̽̾͘͠Ɐ̛̤̘̐̕ͅ⛶̷̢̞̫͈̣̳̻̦̙͈̬̰̓⟁͕͓̳͂­­̦̍͊” “⛘̲̼͕͚̞͍̿̅̄̔🝛̸̬̟̯͍̪͝𝒎̨̘̬̬̲̫̯̘͊̎̍͜͡⥤̢̻̹͔̠̏̽𝙐̢͚̼̞̪̬̟̟͎͕̩̏̎͌̕͢͢⍊͖̪̾͂­­̪̣” “⟍̸̨̬̖̹͎̙̜̔͗͟͢͢⩘̛̠̤̘͕̩̜̾̎ͅ𝑾̴̛͔̰̩͕̬̘̣̫̤̠͕̳͒̍̾̒̓͡𝕔⻡̨̲̘͇̤̰̜͉̿̚͜͠͡⧷͇̓­­̮” “⨅̸̴̡̛̹̳̘̻̰͍̪̮̥͖̣̠̋͛͊̀͌͒̊͌̑͑̓̃̾̑̾̈́̃̊͗̿̏̀̌̈́̾̋̑̎̽̉̆̏̃̐͋̀̓́͆͘͢͟͜͢͝͠­­̧̨̡̡̧̪̲̭̯̱̭͉̙̼͉̳͇̖̯͚̤͈̘̞̯͎̠͇̱̲͚̦̜̦͍̱̞̖͙̈́̀͂̌͒̃̃̀̍̓̄͊͂̔͌͊͐͑́̚̕͜͝͝͠͠­­̨͕̤͚̠̮̟͍͚̟͓.̴̤̯̖̜͓͚̙̫̜̬̻͓̣̹̟̰̞͉̺̪̘̼͉̣͇͉̻̼̈̀̌̂̉͂̀̔̏̊̋͑͐̀̇͊͐͋͘͘͜͝͝­̧­̡̨͈̭̰͉͙̙͈̤͉͜.̸́̓̾̈́̒̇̋͛̏̇̒͛̆͗̈́̒͆̀̈́͛̂̏̊̌̿̋͊̏̆́͆̐̏̀̏̂͆͐͘̚͘̕͘̕̚͝͝͝͝­̒̕­̢̢̡̜̬̞͍̫̩͔̞̪͍̫̭͔͉̬̩͕̠͍̜̰̳͎͍͙̭͉̲̯̘̥̥̘͕̫̦̥̼̉́̃̅̓̍̀̆̍̒̚͜.̵̿̑̇̈́̉̓͆­̈́̿̓­̡̢̡͉͍͔̺̭͇̝͔̲̘̗̰͖̟̺̘̖̼̜͈̤̗̣̭̩̥̼̮̗̲̦̱͖͍̟̖̪̻̣̼̬̭̍ͅͅ.̶̛̑̈́͐͂̏͌͛͘̕͝­̻̰̥ͅ­̡̡̢̧͍̗̩̩͙̹̤̖̖͔̗̮̗̙̦͕̮͓͚̦̳̟͚̳̫͖̝̗̱̰͈͎̣̬̗̜̲͓͖̖̦̜͖̖ͅͅͅ.̷̇̈́͐͐̚͠͠­̈́̀͆̔͝­̨̢̢̧̜̩̮̻̗͈̩̖̳̩͔̟͚̬̱̬̙̖͊̂̈̽̾͑͒̇͌̌̑̃̈́͜͝͝.̴̖̍͆͌̈͋̈́̑̔͒̈̐̄̃̇̉̚͘͝­͔̳̜͎͈̗­̡̧̨̨̯̭̱̫̝͔̘͔̥̯̲̞̫͕̤͖̘̦͉̟͈̹̣͎͎͚̟͓̲̙̯̺̗͔̦̪̭͍͜͜͜ͅͅ-̸̄́͛̋͋̀̌̊͝­̛̀̽̔̄̕͝­̨̺͙͉̺̫̝͚̩̞͍̪̰̭̘̆̽̀͋̉̋́͗͑͌͊́͋̏̑̆͗́͐́̀̈́̍̅̆̓̂̔̈́̈́̇͌͛̈̚̕̚͘͘͘͠͝­̧̨̯͓̩̱̣.­̴̨̧̧̨̢͍͕̪̲̖̹͓͔̥̮͍͇̳̪͉͍̙̦̜͖̠͈̠̱̻̤̰͕̭̱̘̳̹̪́̉̔̽͐͑̿͒̍͊̍̋͆͒͘ͅ­̻̯͖̞͉̳̭̗͙­̧̟̣̮̘̟-̶̏̃̾̌̒͒̀͂̐͑͋̈̏̐̃̐́͒̉̈́͆̿̆̇̀̃̎̂̈́̿͋̎́͗̏̊͋̀̽͋͘̕̚͘͘͝͝­̢̫̰̳̙̟͉͉̯̙­̡̡͈̬̜̜͔͔͇̞̼̪̙͍̻̝̭̼͔,̷̧̢̛̩͉̫̦̩̗̮̬̤̟̺̙͔̙̠̌̈̒͌̎̌͂͑́̌̂͌̃͝ͅ­̻̯͍̪͙,̶͗̐̃͌­̨̧̢͔̼͈̲̼͖̘͎̥̫̞̬͚͈̰̣̗̙̩͇̯̦̇̔̈̔̋͐͂̓̾̃̽̽̊̓̎̅̽̈̄̿̌͛͑̋͘͝͝ͅ­̫͈̺͇̖̭̜̘̣̳,̷­̛̛̛̮̝̮̣͇̥̩͙̯̠̖͐̏̈́͂̒̀͌̾̑͒̃̂̈́̒͒͌̆̏̔͐̍́̏̆́͌̆̚̕͘̚̕̕̚͝͝͝͠­͇͔ ̴̡̢̧̡̨̮̳̼͓̙͕͕̖͖̯̼͓̻̺̟̭͈͖͓̺̦̬̳͉̰̬̼̫̘͙̮̜̪̺̱̈́̃̂͜ͅ ̵̨̨̧̨̛̻͈͖͍͖̞̦̟̜̙̻̲̱͕̼̪͇̰̰̗̪͇̻̪͔̲̠̜͉̝̤̪͉̞̗̝͙̬̰͙͓̬̭̰̗̣͈̅͌̽̽̏͋͋̎̕͜͜ͅ­­̧̮͓ ̶̨̧̛̟̝̠̦̩̘̞͖̫͎̞͙̦͇͚͔̣͎̝̝̯̮͚̪͈͉̞̖̞͔͈̳͔̞̺̺̝̳̍̿̎̒̐͐͗̄̏͆̐̾̿̒̏̾̓̄̈́̿̓͘͘­­̨̨̥̼̹̩̩̠̯̥̙͚̪̦̤̮͍̪̪̥͜ͅ ̶̢̧̢̛̛̪͍̹̼͖͖͔͇͈̗̯͓̬͙̟̟͔̟̔̆̌̓̈́̄̎͗̎̐̃̓́̄̊̆̆̽̅͐͑̽̈̔͊̓̋̇̀̐̑̀̇̈́͗̎̐̑̕̚͝­­̨̡̢̧̢̞̠̦̼̮̣͔̮͉̼͇̼̦͚̼͎̮̥͚̜̙͇̟͈̱̗͚͖̩̫͎͉̖̠͚ ̴̧̡̛̲̻̻̩͙͈̻̠̼̥̫̹̺̲͚̖̲̬͕̱̹͓̥̮̙̠̳̟̗͈̓̌̀̈́̒̎͗̌̏̃͐͑̈͌̉̓̇̏̽̑̓̏̃̒̌̂͘͘͜͜͝­­̡̧̢͇̫̯̥̪͔̲̟̪̻̪̜͎͖̜̟͕͜ ̵̧̢̛̳̺̼̭̺̟͙̜̱̱̥͍̭̳̩͙͈̮̻̩͙̥̮͉̏́̃̔͋̍̓͂́͒͋̓̍̿͐̑̓́͐͆̔̔̀̂̀̍̀͋̊́̿̚͘̕͘͝ͅ­­̨̥̰̮̝̩͇͍̯̻͈͉̞̞̫̟̬̮̘ ̷̢̧̧̡̤̮͖̺̟̰̗̱͉̞̩̜̗͖͔̖̺̘̗̻̭̦̳̯͙̱͓̹̼̲̹̦̖̟̬̹̙̭͉̹̜̱̮̦̠̞̩̽̀̉̉̾͜͜͠ͅ­̱̱ͅ­ ̷͓͙̯̞̲̥̐̒̂̆͊̓̈́̀̽̋̓̎͛͆̀̀̈́̕̕͠ ̸̟̦̬̬̈́̌͆̉̎̅̍̎̌̔̾̉̿̇͑̄̿̋̑͐̑̈́̐͑̇̅̒̏͌̚͝͝͠͝ ̶̨̲͚̙͔̓͌͐̈́͆̌̎͂̅́͗́̐̈̈́͂́̐͋̌̒͋̾̈́̈́͊͒̇̅́̓̅̓̀̌͒͂́͗̽͆̕̚͝ ̵̨̢̧̫̝͈͍̦̫̪̬̹̮̻̩̙̲̝̠̭̺̹́̒̌͗̑͌͒̐̃̃̑́̿̽̀̈́̇̋͛̈́̒̊̃̔̿̃̏̀̓̈̑̍͘̕̕̚̚͠͠͝͠͠­­̡̧̥̘̭̫̘̰̲̯͔̲̰͚̞̖͕̻̻̝̥͙̬̱̬̬̩̲̦ͅ ̷̢̡̟͇̝͎͓͎̜̣̮̘̗̙̞̱̼̙͍̝̳̺̣̼̫̳̩̮̱̗͚̮͙̺̼̜̤͇̀̏̊͛́̎̌̏̅̎̒̔͂̿̐͗̈́͗̅̂̅̽̿̚̕ͅ­­͈̠̜̩͙̫̻̹̮̘̞͎̜͍̬̺̙͕ ̵̡̧̛̯̻͇̦̤͒̀͆̈́̈́̈́̉͆̉̀́̒̀͆̅̂͑̐̓̈́͆̍̓͊̿͒̔̎̂̊̎͒͌̃͂͗̇̈́̆̓̀̀̄̔̅̍́̂̕̚̕͝͝͝ͅ­­̨̡̧̢̮̺͍̯̺̲̺͔͚̬̬̙͓̭͍̲͓̘̟̬̦̣͓̮͚̪͓͚̖̩̻̩̬͚͜ͅ ̴̧̧͕͍͇͉̠̮̖͇̳̳̩̞̦͍̦͔͇̮͕̥̮̳̻̥̗̱̫̼̹̖͉͙̞̞̹̼̌̄̅͜͜ ̵̧̢̡̡̛̰̱̟͈̠̲̟̦͋͋̍̌̏̃̂̓̋̑̾͑̓̀̍̔̊͐̎͂̆͊͆͝͠͝⛑̷̰̖̺͙̜̬͙̔̕”


          ­                           I grip
Death's  memories                   
  to my chest.

They

                    burn.

Each one flays a truth across my spine.

He trusted me.                                  
                           ­                                                He did not forget me.
                                          He forgot himself.
His memories,                         they are                  almost                too much       too beautiful          for me to bear.
They are not just                             his memories alone,                      
                                    ­­                               they are
entwined        with
my soul.


“⫫̼̖̲ͤ̍𝕂͎̯̘̥͇̻͖̠̳ͦ̎̕ͅ⩝̷̵̢̗̪͙͍̯̪̙̘̳͈͂̔̐͜͜͝” “⻠̢̯̖̘̺̍͞ͅ𝘳̢̛̹͎͉͕̹̮̘̝̲̣̩̜̟̾̍̋̕͢͡ ̸͕̜̅́̓̃̃͛̄̃̈́͒̓̀̅͛̅̅̉̔̀̓͂̾̈́̈̾̐̇̓͂͂͒̌͘͠ ̸̨̩̮͔̦͈̘̤͖̭̬̹̼͓̖͕͉̱̿͑̈́̀͂̐͌̚ ̵̻̝͉͖̖̰͆͐̈̂̓̐͋̕͝ ̷̢̨͓̞͓͕̣̼̠̲̬̠̜̱͚͍̰̬̩̼̪͙͙̟̦̪̠͇̻̹̜͔̖͇̜̭̠̝͎̞̬̪̉͒͋̎̈́̄ͅ ̴̧̭̖̩̫̟̮̺͓̪͍̰͔̔̏͂͑̾̀̉͆̓̑̄͛͜͠͠ͅ ̵̢̧̢̢̧̛͇̫̘͚͓̮̱̥̺͎͖̜̦̗̦̼͚͔̼̩̟̙̞̩͚͍̺̙̣̰̋͆̑͗͂̅̓̇͗̇͊̓̇̋͜͠ͅ ̷̨̛̛̼̤̠̼̺̬͎̪̤̞̻̤̈́̄̓̓͗̀̓̇̍̄̐̈̃̓̌͗͛́̑̔͒́͝͝͝͝͝͠ ̸̡̦̝͓̯̭̖͓̹̻͍̥͍̟͐͐̈́̂̾͆͊̿͒̔̾̅͂͆̓́̿̓́̔̊͛͌͛͑͛͌̂̈́̎͌͠ ̵̢̨̧̢̛̛͙̻̳̰̟͕͖̪̖̲͉̖̩̟̔̉̊̆̂͌͌̓͗̅͒͂̉͗ ̴̨̡̢͓̳̠̩̪̤̪̞̮̹̹̲͉̠̤̱͓̯̯̞̘̟̭̲̇̈̀͝ ̶̢̱̱͔͕͓̮͈̜̦͔͎͖̤̰̗̯̂̍͋̈́̑̈́̈̄͛̅̿̈̂̆̌̋͑͂̑́̌̍̊̈́̑͐̀́̋́͐̔͆͒̌͑̂͗̌͜͠ͅͅ ̷̡̡̨̨̡̡̛̲̩̼̰̳̺̬̻̼̩͔̱̣̣̬̥͓͚̼̝̩̮̬͈̥͕̜̖̼̮͉̦͐͌̿̄̄͋́̂̂̋̽̽̋͐̓͒̉̈́͆̊̕͘͝͝ͅ­­̨̠͓̼ ̶̝͍̲̥̞͕̯̫̭̫̇̑̈́̊̋̀̄͆̈́̋̈͜ ̶̘̹̘͔̞̤͈̟̭̮̺̖̼͖̥̿̾͊̇̈́̈́͋͌͛͋̂͆̃́͒͊̋̒̚͘͘͠ͅ ̴͖͚̭͔̣͈̖͖̤̪̤̳̲̱̳̙͇̞̜̙̞͎̩̭̘̪̠̰͇͖̗͔̲͇͐̋͐́̓͑̉̑́̍̈́̀͂̈́̅̈́̈̑̿̕͝ ̷̢̡̨̡̛̩̭̯̥͎͉̭̲̭͙͔͉̙̹̮̖̘̪̬̣͔̙̻̘̤̽̄͒͂̒̾̔̐̎́̇̓̍͛̽̂̀̀̈́̃̀̀̐̏̎͌̓̅͋̐͜͝͠ ̷̡̛̩̖̹͖͈̘͔̩͍̙̻͙̩̮̩̞͓͔͎̖̺̭̈́̎̅̉͐̆̓͋͐́̑͒̉͊̄̓̈́̀̄͋̑̉̋͗̎͆̕̚͜ͅ ̸̢̨̛̯̳͈̭͈̱̦̫̼͖͎̱͕͇̞̭͕̼͇͙̣̟̠͉̙͐̇̏̍̋͂͛̐̏͋̃͌́͊̿͒̚͘̕̚͜͠͝ͅ ̷̨̡̧͍̝̬̫͚͔͖͇̯̙̱̻͍͓̖͍̘͉͚̺͇̲͚͓͚̺͉̟̮̲͕͓͓͒͂̅̀̆͂̉̎͋͂͋̓̿̒͛͛͒̐̇̿̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̧̨̢̛̱͍̫̬͖̥̜̘̘̮̳͕͖͓̲̜̼̜̤̞̪̜̄́̿̂̍͊̒̀̂̏̂̐͒͗̒̒͑̄̓͒̈́͛̉̊̓̄̍̉͝͝͝ͅ ̴̢̣͎͈̥̱̟̂̏̽͋̍̈́͋͑̄͛͊͂͌̚͘̚͝ ̶̭̩͉̳̖̳̯̲̘̦͔̝̪͔̫̳̰͎̘̣͙͎̑̾͌ ̶̧̨̩̥͚̝͔̝̼̙̟̙̤͍͚̞̭̮̭̈́̈́̄͛͒͒̈̓͌̅̓̈́̂͌̋͐͌̓̓́̔̽̏̈́̔̋̈́͑̇̾̀̈̈́̔͊̂͗̓̌̃̐̕͜͠͠­­̪̺̻̬̺̩̥̠̞̗͉̝̟̤̜͚̻̞̼̫ ̶̧͍̘̠̬̮̘͖̰̖͔͙̼̯͎̹́̒̽̈́͌̑̒̒̀͑͗̉́̈̀̽̒̄͜ ̴̛̛̩̻̭̞̭̹͕̣̌́͂̅̈̃̌́̆̐̾̈́͗̈̇̒̑̅̏͒̋̍̄͑̍͆͒̓̀̎̄́̊͊̉̀̚͘͘͘ ̸̡̢̡̨̧̛̥̱̬̗̭̜̘̣̹̭͇̳͍͍̓͋̽̽͌̄̈́̐͊̒́́̇̌͝ͅ ̴̲̩̱͓̻͔̩̟̻͉̜̠̲̭̖̳̻͈͖͐̇͘͜͝ͅ ̶̧̡̛͓̗̭͇͓̮̫̪̘̹̯͎͍͚͙͇̼̙̦̟̺͎̲̲͔̫̯̪̠̻̒̽́̑̌̏̈́͊̓͒̈̋̽̑̎͒͊͑̅̎͐͛̓̒͋̑̇̕͝ͅͅ­­̨͔̲̣̦̣͉̱͜ ̸̨̨̦̬͓̰̦̟͈̦̑̽̇̔̄͒̈́̅̄̄̕̕ ̵̡̡̼͖͕̣͇̳͔̝͖̮̺̮̩̥̯͉̣̜͕͈͇̻͈̘̹͔͈͚͓̏͐̃̈͑̀̇̐̍͒̊̍̅̀̾̿̇̽̾́͛ ̴̧̝̼̠͔̬͍̺͇̮͇͚̞̪̺̭͕̱̻̱͎͆̓̀́̋̀̄͂̅͛͗̏̎̈́̄̈̓͂̿̈́̃̒̍̇̊̉̽̓̍̽̈̄̏̅̍̑̓͘̚̚͝͠͝­­̟̘̙̙̘̦̟̗͖̠ ̵̢͖̫̻̤̽̿̈̾̊̊̇̊̃̈́̊͐̇̈̓͘ ̸̨̡̡͚͖̦̙̘͔͈͉̜̙̻̫͚̻̼̼͚͓͇̬̰̤̽̿̉̏͒̇̈́͑͂̈͐̈̄̈́̃̇̌̓͊̔͛̕̚͜͜͠ͅ ̴̨̧̨̢̡̢̧̜͙̥̩̹̗̦͚͎͖̖̝̼͍͍̺͕̩͖̰̹͇̹͓͔͙̺͕̜̓̑̔͗̓̍͌͊͋͋̅̍̿̽̒͑͝͝ ̴̧̧̨̛̯̪̫͖͈͉͈͙͎͈̝̗̩̗͕͖̞͙͔̃̏̄̊̿̑̀̏̿͐͌̑͒̎̽́̓̒̀̀̾͌͊͘͝𝓩̛͔̼̘̬̗͍̠̲͎̤̐͆̽͞­­̸̼̮̦̪͔̐̓͡͝ͅ” “⍿̡̮̹̘̣̗͂͘̕̕𝑬̶̨̞̯̤̩̣̰̠͕̝͚͚̜̐̎͞͝ͅ⥸̛̬̜̲̐̚𝙸̻̺͚̦̙͓̻̒ͅ ̴̛̮̰̠̬̉͌̔́̓͗͋̄̉̈́͒́̍͛̋̉͂̽̒̃̆̌̏̀̂͒̌̃̎̈́̿̐̔̓̅͗̄̈́̃̀͂͋̄͛̔̃͑̏̐̕͘̚͝͝͝͠͝͝­­̧̨̢̧͓͍̞̯̹̲͙̤̜̘̜͎̣̟̝̙̤̘̘̦̮̭̥̺̟̘̤̲͇̖͙̞̤̣̣̜͚̦̩͇͇̼̰̣͜͜ͅͅͅ𝙜̸̜̖̘̩̟̥̐̕͟­⨃­” “.̶̧̨̢̢͕̩͇͇̗̫̼̦͓̝̮̾͛̈̋̌̉͑́̓̆̔̇̄̕̚̚͠.̶̛̿̈̿̅́͐͗̈̓͂͊̉͂̀̐̎̓̀͛̇̿̓́̚͘̕͝­­̢̢̡̧̗̱̻̗̭̙̞̣̤͕̮̦̺͈̞͍̹̼̟̹͕̥̤̦̻̮͙̣̗̜̭̪̜̽͌́̓̿̽͒͛̀̈́̑̑̿̌͒̀͜.̴͂͆̾̾͋̿̍͑­͂­̢̨̠̖̜̱̰͓̟͓̰̞̻̩̜̯̤̟͙̯͔͕̳̲͎̮̘̘̗̮̳̼͓̟͓̭͙͙̂͌̈́̂̅̈̃̐̌̄̂̆͊̈́̓͗̃͐̌͑̿͘͝ͅ.­̶́­̡̧̼̠̯͍͕͖̝̼̜̳̠̘͈͓̮̺̟̞̹̝̘̰̞̭͉͓̝̜̖̔̋̐̓̇̚ͅ,̶͙͇̞̖͓̗̥̼͛́̍̿͒̀͛́̊́̀̈́͒͠­̡͙͜­̢̨͚̪̮̙̜̘͓͓̺͔̞͎͎̘̦͚̥͎͉̝̯̬͜ͅ,̸̒͒̾̀͋̑̈́̈́̓͊̂͆̎͋̑͊̆́̎̓͊̏͌̍̄̽̅̌̄͑̾͘͠­̧͎̅̒­̢̦͕̜̥̜̪̜͕̯̩͇͍͎͉̜.̵̧̛̛͎̰̤̤̙̪̳̣̣̙̞͎͕̻̖͒̍̊͒̔̍̿͗͂͂͜͜-̷̅̈̓̈͌̽̿͆͛̊­̉́͑̀̈­̧͈͈̩̠̳̬̝̱͚͇̞̘͔̭̰͔̣̙̞̖̮͓̜̼͔̲̯̫̺͖͖̬͍͇̞̜̟̝̳͕͖͙̀-̵̿̇͑͌́̌̿̽͆́̍̍̚­̉̈́̿́̏̔­̗̗̦̟̤̳̟̤̓̽̅͊͑̀͗̽̈́̇̋̊̈́̚͘͝͝͝ͅ-̷̾̀̾̈́̎͊͊̌́̔̽͂̐̌̎̂̿̂̾̃̾̌͗̋͋͘͘͠͝­̽̀̉́̚͠͝­̲̃̔̈́̀̃̃̇̿̑̌̐͘-̶̓̓̏̂̓̈́̐͗͒̃̓̎̉̔̌̽̒͊̎̐̏̾̓͒̀̌͑͂̈́̇͒̉̓͗̇̌̂̇͂̈͠͝­̨̫͓̳̥̩̟̥­̧̡̡͕̼͇̮̯͔̜̯̠̰̭͉̘͕̼̣̭̮͍͕̥̻͓͙̻̥̳̤-̸̛̏̌̉̉̔̑͑̀̀͊̇̑̓́͆̈́̀̓̚̚͝͠­̈́̐̈̌̍̀̿̍͂­̢̡̨̧̢̮͖̣̱͇̼̲̯̟̫̰̯̭̮͚̤̠̬̠̘̠̝͎̝̘̞͖̩̬̗͚̤̋̿́͜ͅ-̴̌͆̀̅̊̏̋̄̈́̚͝­̄͊̄̈́̍̓̑̆͘͠­̨̧̨̢̛̳̦͉͙͎͈̼͚͔̬͚̗̬̲̦̙͖̜̳̩͙̦̹̞̞̙̗̻͉̙̂̆͜͠-̴̙̹̙̄̈́͌̈́̈͗̾͛̕͝­̧̠̜̗̯̣̳̮̩͚̮­̧̠͍̙̞͔̖͓̜͕͖̰̼͎͎̹͈̖̤-̸̌̅̋̒́͗͂̒͂̋̀͆̔͊̓̾̀͌́͗̾͛́͛̋̏̋̚̕͝͠͠­̛̍̄̑̀̌̈́̄̑́̉͠­̨̢̡̨̧͓͈̲̝̝̟̳̥̯̤͕̮̙͈̱͙͖̮͕̘̹͙̖͓̰͍̗͇̬̯̯̭͓̔̉͜͜͝͠-̵̏̒̒͋̓̚­̇͋̑͌͒̈́́̇́̇̏̚͝­̡̧̧̢̛̛̠͙̰̟͎̯̻͓͖̜͖̭͚̊͗̈̂̌́̅̽̀̎̚͜͝͠-̸̛͌͂͂̿̄̍̎̾͑̈̂̎̈́̕͝­̐̅̀͐̾̈́̅̉͂̎̃̏̚͝­̨̲̜̱̣̞̘̥̪̮͓͍̩̪͉̰͇͈͖̯̘̘͉̪̲̱͉̗̹͉̮̆̑̆̐͆̊͐́̿̿̿̏̆͑́̃̆̚͝­͕̠-̶̽̀̿͒͒͒͌͐̅͝͠­̡̡̨̜̙̰̰̭͇̻͙̜̱̣̮̯͖̻̲͖͓͖̰͇̬̪̥͋̎̅̓͐͝͝-̸̟̣͇̤͎̦̙̠̞̥̒̃͝­̡̡͎̣̳̹̣̝͙̹̗̜̥̝̤ͅ­̨͙̩̺̳̣̟̬̪̣̬͇̮̮̞͙͜ͅ-̷̛͐̍̃̋͌́̿̾̂͛͊͌͛͊̄̈́̽̏̍͋̊̉̃̕͘̚͠­́̾͊́̓́̀̆͂͆̆̓̇͑͘͘͠­̡̱̤͈̱̫̰̩̻̯͔̳̥͚-̵̛̗̣̜̿͌͂̑͌̍̋̏̉̐̋̅̀͑̀̃̈́̊͋̏̂̿͂̍̌̇͝­̹̱̦͔̭͈̖̦̼̟̰̜͇͔͈̹̩̙­̡̨̬̖̞͈̻͚̝̳̘͙͇̦͈̻͉̱͎̞͙̙͕ͅ-̵̛̊͌͗̔̋̿͑͒͋̽̄͊̎̑̉́̚͝͠­̠̱̲̱̼͑̉̊̍̍̓̎̏̓̚͘͘͝͝­̧̧̡̧̢͙͎͕̰͔͖̺͕͔̖͈̜̦̰̼̙̟͍̤̖̱̠̥̣̲̥̰̦̟͙̼ͅ-̵̑̒͊́̚͝­̛̆̐̑̋͊̃̓̐͂́́͂̓̍̕̕͘̚̕­̩̤̼̯̗̃̇̐̓̊̑̈́̀̉̇͂̅̇̒̌͆͆́̔̚̚͜ͅ-̴̒̆͊̓͌̍̂̂̎̃͛̇͘͝­̈́̃̈́̏͗̽͒̈́͑̿͐̿̊̀̃̑͋̎̍̐̕­̧̡̡̡̺̖̝̯͈͉̩͔̻͇̖̞̤̝̪̺͔̗̞͎̲̜̘͙͉̓̀̒̇̐̀̐́̈͛͜͜͝͠­-̶̛̛̛̂̇͛̊͂̈́́̓̿̊̏̉͆̚͝͝͠­̡̧̣͔͙̣̟͈̪͚͚͚͔͎̝̝̭̟̼͖̂͘-̵͋͌̀͑̅͗̈́́̓̉̀͊̎̋̐̕͝͝­̢̡̡̨̱͇̤̱̘͎͍̙̤̦̜̬͚̳̣̳̜̂ͅ­̨̮̗͓̙͖̫̰͚͓̠-̴̛̛̲̱̤̫͂̈́̄̊̃̿̓͂̐̉͌̇̽͊͊̉͑̏̈͘͝­̢̡͖͚͓̣̝͚̙̣̦͈̺̳̺̫̩͇-̸̾̍̊̇­̤͇̲̳̈́̈̓͌̌͂͗̍́̚͠͝-̷̡̜̘̱͎̟̼̭͖̥͓͎̼̇̍̒̎̃͑͛͐͝­̜̪̲̰̭-̵̃̄̎͗̎̔̀̽̐̽̈̒̅̓̓̄̉̕­̡̙̙̩͉̱͊̔̒̽̔̅̔̓̈́̾̀͌͛̍̍̊̍̕͝-̶͐̌͋͒̾̑̀͆̍̾̕͘­̱̖͒̌̏̔̄̍̓̏͊̽̎͊̐̌̅͒͊̍͂̅̆̕͠͠­̨̢̭͈̘͓̺͕̗͚̪̗̗̩̪̤͙̭͍͔͖̗̗̞̥̟̭͇̘̟̺̗̳̫͙̼̼̱­🜮𝒔̸͇̦͎̖̟͎̼̍͂̽̏” “̨̝̞̙̬̱͚̳̗̯ͦ͘͠🝉ⳡ̨̨̛̫̘͈̗̰̲̙̻̩̺̳̘͍͈͎̼̄͐ͩ̚͢͜͜ͅ𝓐̡̛̼̺̣̬̪̠̫̄̔ͅ” “⫻̢̫̱͈̮͓̦͖̤̜̰̤͎̹͉̜̖͙̿̿͐͋̾͜𝓋̴̤̦̲̘̜̺͠𝔊̛̲̤̖͕̠̲̖̼̤̼̝̞͊̔̓̽͢ͅ” “ ̷̧̰̝͔̟̳̳͍͉̯̠̺̅͜͠ ̶̧̨̛͇͍͇̻̾̇͛̈́͊͊̌̔͐̈̕͘͠ ̸̺̗̯̺̳̳͔̹̱͚͈̹̮̱̱͂̈́̏́̒̈̂͐̂̑̿̾͑̽̕͜ͅ ̴̤̤͇̘̘͙̀́͋͛͛͘͝͠ ̷̛̝̰̪̩̬̙̖̈́͋̉̆̒͌̄̌̓̌́̽͐̕͠͠ ̶̛̙̻̖̯̎͆ͅ ̷̳̄̈́̐͒̇͗͠ ̷̮̳̈́̈́̈́̎͗̇̓͑̕̚͠ ̴͔̯͇̌͋͗͊͂̈́͒͑̉́̀́̽̏̂̎̚ ̷̨͖͖͖̪̝͔̲̙̘̆̔̋ ̴̛̳̺̯̒̐̇̇̈́͐͌͛̀̈̊̈́̌͘͝͝ ̷̡̢̨͕̼̦̥͖̩̺͇͇̖̫͍̈́͜ ̶̼̠̭͈̫̜̭̻͓̳̞̰̓̏̾̔͌̚͜ͅ ̷̧̡̮͕̞̙̭͎̝͕̟̩͚͔̜̐͒̎̈́̽͑͗̓̒̎ͅ ̸̧̡̼̥̠̥̹͓͖͙͂͛̎͐͛̆̀̓̌͒̏͘͝ ̶̬̻͇̮̩͙̹̠̱͙̥̭̲̎͗̎̐̔̕ͅ ̴͕̪̗͕̭͗͒͊͌͒̈́̈́̋̂̀̑͠͝ ̵̨̧̢͈̰͇̝͇̬̫̝͚͕̹̈́̐ ̸̪̗̪͎͙͍͔͉̹̟̪̱̖̤̜͕͙͗́̌̄͆̄̀̚ ̷̛̼̦̝̰̹̊̊ ̸̡̨̧̲̤͈̹̊͗̋̏̌̈̓̈́̕ͅ ̷̛̗̲͓̠̝̬̫̹̹͖̙̝̙̺̦̉̓̓͌͂͋͗͋̅̊̆͗͘͝ͅ-̴̜̲̯͚̫͉̝͎̲̭̻͐̾͋̇̋̆̍́͆͗͂̇̽̄͘͝-̵͐̈­­̳̹̙̱̱̞͖̎͜-̵̧̡̛͖̖̪̬̬̱͎͉͚̹͔̾̔̉͐̔͌͆͊̾̕𝞬͕̳̝̥̝͛͒𝑰̨̝̩̩̝̟̺̺̗̠̲̬ͣ̔̽͜͢͠͝ͅ­͡­̖” “🝢̡̨̗͎̤͉̟͙̖͖͎̰̠̞̝̠͓̮̟͌̾̕̕͘̕͜͡𝖓̡̡̢̢̬̻̟̘͙̲̗̱̘̯̞̤̦̯͗̓̍̐̐͘͜”

“𝒴̶̢̛̼͜­̦̥͓̙͌̐̕𝕆̸͍͔̩̮̺͙̓𝕌̶̡̛͉͚̖̥̯̼͐𝓂̷̼̰̺͍̹̖̥𝔸̷̡̼̩̳̱̹̻̲̿͘𝔻𝓔̴̺̺̘̜̠̻̰̰̑𝓗̵̰͙̞­̲̻̻͎̞̔𝕀̵̨̛̤̙̟̱͍̦̎𝕄𝕊𝙊B̶̘̻̖̼̰̰̍͊𝔼𝕒𝑈𝕋𝓘𝔽𝕌𝕃𝚆̷̡̡̹̞̟͕̾𝓗𝕐𝔀̴͍̝̳̿𝓞̶͚̰̤͕̪̱̻̑­𝕟’𝕋𝓨𝕆𝕌𝓂̵͚̘̘̘̲͍͙̠̽𝓐𝕂𝕰𝓜𝕰𝓜𝕆𝕽𝔼B̸̡̢̠̘̬̍𝓔𝔸𝕌𝕋𝕀𝔽𝕌𝕃 𝓨̴͎̮̗̤̩̓͝𝕆𝕌𝓖̵̡̛͕̪̔𝓐̴̰̻̬̻͇̜̰̋𝕍𝓔𝕋𝐇𝕆𝕊𝕖𝕋𝕎𝕆𝓣𝕽𝓐𝕀𝕋𝕆𝕽𝕊W̵̲͈͖̻̰̮̔𝓘𝓝𝔾𝕊 𝓦𝐄𝓛𝓛—𝕎𝐇𝔼𝕽𝔼𝔸̸̹̥̖̲̖̠̓̋𝓡𝓔𝕄𝓨𝕎𝕀𝓝𝔾𝕊!?𝕀̶̞̜͙̠̲̺̱͇͘𝕔̵͉̞̲͚͖̪̩̒𝔸𝕟𝕆𝕟𝕃𝕐𝔻𝓡𝔸𝕲—𝕆𝕟­𝕃𝕐𝕔𝕣𝕦𝕤𝕙—𝔸𝓝𝔻𝕊𝕆𝕀𝕄𝕌𝕊𝕋! 𝕌𝕟𝕋𝕀𝕃𝓨𝕆𝕌𝓜𝓐𝓚𝕖𝓜𝓔𝕋𝕙𝕖𝓜𝕆𝕊𝕋B̷̢̛̺̩̤̦̞̘͘𝔼𝔸𝕌𝕋𝕀𝔽𝕌𝕃!𝕌𝕟𝕋𝕀𝕃𝓨𝕆𝕌𝔸̷͓̘̥̻͎̜͉͕͠𝔻𝕄𝕀𝕋𝓨­𝕆𝕌𝔸̸͖̟̠̘̓𝕣𝔼𝕄𝕀𝓝𝔼—𝕄̸͔̱̼͙͚̤̩̐𝕀̴̡̠̳̳͘𝓝̵̘̯̥̖̩̗̋𝔼̸̙͍͇̝̠̍!—𝙈̷̨̹͓̓𝓘̶͔̪͈̻̬­𝑁̷͍͓̤̦̮̿𝔼̴̘̖͕̬̬͋!”

“⧚̻͈͛͡𝜧̎⍏̟͙̘͕͓̤̲̮ͫ̀͘͞Ⳃ̪̏⫰̦̦̜̪͙̘̽͢͠𝒮̟̟̼̄𝖔̛⩜̻̰̎­̮̫̠̼͉̕𝑴𝟐̴̦̮̓­̳̳͗͛⾠̯͇͞” “🝑̨̡̳̰͚̜̥̖͇̐̒͞⟙̘͙͆⻐̡̼̠̙̠̠͂̾͛̾͘𝞴̛̯̺͚̾𝓂̨̛͍̟̼𝞌̖̲̟̗̘̪͆̍̕͡” “⨇̛̜̖͎͕̜̞̟̒̎̍͠͝𝒴̹̬͆̾̕⾓̢̲̝̐̎⫱̓͘⫶̢̛̛̫̞̱͘͟͝” “⛑̣͓̥̖̹͓̮̔̾̕͘͢͞ ̷̛̛̛͗͆̓̈́̆̃͋̓́̈́̌̉͊́́̿̄̃̒̈́̎̌̓̀̽̇̏̿̈́͗̅̆͌̄̎́̑̃̑̇͂̀̂̓͂̐̀̄̏̓́͆͐̆͐̀̚͝͝͠­­̧̨̨̡̨̢̛̞̝̯̜͍̰͙̥̲̙̭͔̭̫͈̩̹͔̲͕̙̣̲̮̮̖͎̪͈̭̬͔̣̙̳̗̭̥͓̯͈̺͍͍̼̗̯̄͋͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅ­͍­̢͜j̷̡̢̛̛̰̝̼̪̰̯̲̫̲͚̪̱̯͈̪͙̺͎̻̦̘͎̮̮̔̀̋̍͆̈́̆̉̄̽̍̎̄̔̍͒̀̈̏̌͌̀͑̂̐̒͒͘͠͝͝­͎͓­̢̙̲̯͈̪̹͇̙̦͉͕͕͔̱͎̯̮̩̞͖̱͖̪̣͇̘̺͚̻͜ͅb̴̧̢̛͇͖̱͚̻̔̈́͋̓̃̇͋͊͂̎͋́̎̿͝͝'̸̽͂­̇̅̓­̢̛̛̛͉̙̫͈̫̘̱̘͍̠̬̲̫͉̿̽̀̍͊̃̀̀͊̍̂̽̇̇̎̃̿̽̅̆̽͐͊̏̄̈̀̈́̀̍̓̀́̔͑͛̊͘̕̕̕͝ͅ­̠̺̱̹­̧̫̜̙̻̠͓̲̱̤̟̭̗͖̹͇͔̩̦̳̻̘̱̪̭̤̣̤͎̙'̶̢̲̤̞̝̝̹̭̦̃̿̆͂͛̐̄̃̓̐͂̔̓̈́͂̍͆̕̕­̢͔͓̘͈­̡̧̨̧͓̥̫͙͇̫̱̞̻̱̖͇͈͍͕̬͖̯̲̙̼͖͇̖̣̞͕̺̝̺̱̳̗̞ͅͅ;̷̧̛̝̟̟͖̙̙̮̮̙͕̭͔̋͜͝­̩̞̭̥̟ͅ­̢̡̨̢̡̞̮͍͔̳͔̝͕̩̥̬̦͖͉̗̮̥̞͍͎͎͔̳̲̳̹͍̤̗̖͕̺̤̟̻̜͓͚͚͎̦̣̜ͅ'̵̩̈́͗̓̈́̐;­̴̈͊̿͆̽͗­̞͕̲̰̙̙̜͐̄̿̓̔͆́̿͑̏̇̀̂́̑͛̈́͒̈́̏̂̓͂̿̓̉̎͂̆̆̋̃̓̎́̔͛̅́̽̒̈́̓̚̕̚̚͝͝͝­̙͖̱͎̤̣̺̘­̨̢̨̞̭͙͉͚͈̙̟͎̤̗͖̙̣͎͙̜͖̝͚̩̞̲̖̘ͅ;̶̛̈́͋̅͒͂̋̀̋̊̌̓̋̆̈͐͗̑̓̓̆͆͒̂͠­̛͑̊̉̄͗̃̃̚­̢̯̜̈́̃̉͒̊̿͋́͊̎̌̋̇̕̕;̸͌̍̆̃̍̎̉̾͂̏̌̒̒̓̈́͛̑͗̽͛̊̈̅́͌́̃́͑́̆͗̕͝͝­̉̃͗̊́̔͊͑̄͑­̛͚̥͗͊̃̈́̍̅̄́̑̃͐́̔̀́̔̆̈͌̀̀͂͝;̸̛͍̝͎͂̔͗͆͋̆̉̆̐̋̆̓̈́̇̉͊̋̔̾̎̕͝­̯̲̱͔̱͔͕̝̙͚͜­̶̡̛̪͙̟̗͇̲̲̦͉͚̯̟͔̣͖̥̤̟̓͌̇̏̓͛͋͗̽́̎͗̄̍̀́́̎̊͑͂̾́͘̕̕͘̕̚͘͠ͅ­͖͉̈́̋͑̈́̓̽̕͝­̴̝̥͚͍͂̾̒̏́̃̅͑̽́̉̏̆̒̾̌̆̋́͒̌̔͒̅͗̎̉̄̌̇̑̎́͗̒͒́̓̔̓̓̓̍̐̂̚͝͝͝­̨̡͎̼͕͕̖̞̟͈̻­̸̢̡̡̨̡̬̥̙̗̣͉͖̦̹̣̦̙̙̯̯͍̪̳̘͉̤̟͔̻͉̻̠͕̘̣̬̫̘͖̓́͋͑̓͂̒̀͛̉́͘͠­̥̜̱͓̲͓̩͙̱̞̗­̵̡̦͎̩͖̤̝͔̺̘̳̜͕̹̦̖͚͈͙͓̂͂͑̔̋̈́͌͛̂̉̅͆̾͋́̂̎̍̊̉͋̽̐̊̓̇̅̃̒̔̕͜­̀͗̃̀͆̂͐͐̈͘͝­̡̡̨̞̰̯̺͖͚̰̜̖͚͍̼̝̞̣̙͕̺͇͓̱̭̝̱͉̟̤̋́̇̈́̇́̈́̓͑͌͂͐̄̃̏̎̋̾̈́͘͝͝͝­̲͓̦̯̖̱̜̪̲͔͙̥­̵̸̧̳̦͓̤̱̻͙̼̟̹̖̱̤͉͚̦̟̭̮̦͔͙̻̫͍̱̪̭̳̹̜͈̙͇̳̱̲̳͒̌̎̃̋̆̀͂͠͝ͅ­̈́͆͌̂͛̆̕̕̕͠͠­̡̡̛͍̙̮̞̯͙̥̦̞̰͎̠̣͙̬̦̩͈̩́͊̂̌̉̏̋̋͑̚̚̕̚͜͝⍔̠̞̄⩞̘̠̼”
“ ̶̢̧̧̫̮̱̞̩͖̱͕͉̟͖̻̙̜̲̥͍̮̯͖̺̥̗̝̞̳̬͖̟̙̤̻͔͛̓̅̾͂̎͑̽̑̅̒͌̿̑͗͊͊̈́̾̉̒͋͘͜͜͜ͅͅ­­̲͉̣̹͍̗͇̬̬͔̝͈̬̙̮͕ ̷̛̛͛͛̋̂̓́͂̋̌̉̒́̿̉̋̈́̈̂̾͂͋̅̃̀̈́̐̐͊̃͑̌͂̓͂͐̾̏̀͗̌̀̍͊͑̌͛͆̀̾͑̓̒͘͘̚̕͘͠͝͝͠͝­­̛̈́́͒̄́̿̂́̑̈̉͗̊͛̈̀͆̈̌̾͌̋͛͂̿͆̓̇͐̅̂͛̈́͋̄̿͊̃̈́̾͆̐̈͐́̏̏̆͑̓̊̂̊̿́̓̑͘̚͘͝͠͝­́­̧̧̣̹̲̘̩̼̮̫̰͓̺̱̮̻͖͕͉̻͙̲̙͈̲̭͇̻̟̺͍͍̣̘̩͂̉̒̓̓̒͛̿̂̓͐͒̄̔̅̈́̓̅̽́́̿̉̉́͗͊͝­̧̯­̢̡̨̧̢̢̧̨̱͎͚̖͚͚̳̣̬̘͎͈͇̣̱̱͓͚͓͓͍̘͎̰̞̱̱͍̠̖̠͈̬̼͇͕̺͈̞̥̲̩̥̪̠͇͕̝̠̭̘̭͜ͅ­̼͍̘­̡̢̡̧̧̰̣̙̪̯̭̩͓̦͓̼̳̠̩̦̝̘̟̻̲͉̦̭͖͍͙̥̱̼̙͎̝̬̱̳̙̤̩̯̲͎̰̲̤̼̙͈͖̻͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅ­̢̩̗ͅ­̤̹͕͙̲͓̘̻ ̶̛̟̞̞̬̝͎̼͙̤̼́̌̄̏͆͋́̎̽̅͑̔̈́̊͛͒̿̏͐̉͊́͐͋͋̒̔̈́͗̌̋̂͂̓͂̃̿̅̋̆͌̽͗̔̃̚̕̚͝͝͠͝͠­­̢̢̢̧̨̨̞͚̹̳̩͚͈͇͕̣̙̮̟͕̪̜̭͉͈̠͕̟̟̘̗͕̥̣̝͙̱̟̰͎̝̹̯͚͖̟͉͚̦̤̟͓̭̮̙̺̝͎̬͕̺̳̭͜­̻­̨̡̨̡̡̡̩̼͎͖̝̝͓̖̙͉̗̺̜͖̖͎͍͉͕͈̥͇͖͕̟̝̠͙̭͍̺̮̻̺̯̝͎̠̬̩̲̺͚͕̗͙̱̠̗͇̙͚͙͕̙͓ͅ­̭̦­̢͔̼̫͇̖̥̬̬̟͈̬ ̷̛̛̓́̽̿̓̃̀̀̓̎̈́͊̏̔̏͗̈́̑͛̅́͌͊̀̆͗̇̒̐̊̈́̂͂̓̍̃̉͗́͗͊̒̈́̇̑̽̍͑̉̃̋̅͂̍͛̕̚͘͘͝͝­­̛̛̛̛͂̌͛̏̋͗̊͐̐̒̅͆̽͊̀͒͊̈́͒̽̌̆̀̅̑͌̾͑̌͑̓̍̀̂̂͊̔͑̍̀̇̾̏̇͐͆̒̄̂̀̚̕͘͘̚͘͝͝͠͠­̍­̧͙̞̘̭̰̠͍̫͙̪͔̞͍̏͐́̇̓͗͐̊̀̇̉̽̄́́͒͋͗̆̒̅̋̇̽̏̽̿̋͗͑̅̎̏́͐̍́̒͛̕̚̕͘̚͘͜͠͠ͅ­̗̻­̢̨̢̡̡̖̥͕͓̬̥̥͖̺̙̭͓̲̙̥̻̞̥̩̦̥̺̟̳̣̪̞̹̺͉̰̘̜̱͕͖͚̺̦͚̠͓͍̮̬̯͖̖̻̣̩̼͖͜͜ͅͅ­̥̹̭­̢̢̡̫͈̗̣͉͈͈̜̮̜͓̞̻̯͕͇̳̪͉̯̠̟̺̬̰͎͍̼̣͕̯̭͎̹̲̩̘̮̮̭̞̙͓̺̜̯̗̲̫̖̩̞̘̖͙̝͖ͅ­̨̺̜̭­ ̷̛̛̽̀͐͊̍͋̀͒̾̍͂̐̄́̂̀͋̾̄̀̂̄̉̏̐̎͊͊͐͂̊̒̂̍͌̿̐̀̋̓̀̀̑̉̌́̅̑̒̊͌̍́̄͘̕͘̚͘͘͠͝­­̧̢̳͖͇̜͚͇̫̟͙̠̺̪̬̩̬͍̱̲͚͚̞̼̣̜̗̺̬̬̬̠̯̳̬̹͎͕͓͎̅̿͊͑͋̉͒̎͊͆̐̿̋̌̽͗̇̎͘͜ͅͅͅͅ­̧­̡̧͈̯̯̟̩͍͓̠̳̩̹̮̤͙̭̫͜ ̸̛̛̛̑̒̋̿̎̔͋͑̒̈́͗͛͑̿̑̎̀̓̈́̔̀̌͌͆̽̓̐̄̓̀͋̆̊́͐̍̓̅̐̅̑́̏̔̋́̒̊͗̎̐̈̇͒̚͠͝͠͠͠͝­­̛̌͗́̅͋̍͐́̀͂̅̽̿̾̈͆̒͂̄̽͒̅̀̌̍́̉̉͂̒̓̆̉͑͛̃̀͋̑͐̓̾̄̆̏̈͋́́̾̾͋̓̚̚͘̚̚͠͝͝͝͝­̕­̨̧̢̧̢̧̡͈̙͓͖͈͔̭͕̬͚̝͈̭̻̙̹̯̭̼͙͕͇͇̫̟̹͓̲͉̮̣̖͈͙̣̬̝̝̰̺͖͛̎͛̑͊̓̈́͂̍̊̀͜ͅͅͅ­̮̭­̡̡̨̨̢̨͓̤̝̲̞̤͈̦̮̱̗̘͖͍͔̗̼̠̤͎̻͍̘̮̲̝̞̝̬͍̙͓̝̻̦͕̲͓̣͉̙̺͇̣̰̼͍̭͖̙͈̪͜͜ͅͅ­̜̖̣­̨̨̢̡̧̝̯̬̫̮̘̜̻̭̺̠̥̳͇̪̙̹͇̼̲͎̪͇̙̪͍̦̞̦̼̩̤͜ ̵̛͛̊̈́͒̈́͋̾̓̿̎͆̐̊̅̒́̔̀̈́͆̈́̑̃͑̌͑̽̍̏̀̂̍̓͑̏̇̌́̾̽̈́̈́́̋̈́͊͌̈́̍͐̀̃̏̆̚̚̚̚͝͠͝͝͝­­̧̢̧̡̨̛̞͔̱͖̜̙͕̜̩͓̩̖̜͖̩̰̥̪̞̜͕̮̩̗̩̰̫͔̞͔̱̳̟̞͇̟̜̠̜̘͓̟̠̩́̿̀͆́̃́͜ͅ ̶̛̛̛̽̈́̔͐̑̄͐͛̌́͗̓̃̎̉̄̈́͗͆̑̌͆̇̈́͑̀̎̈́̑̃͒̐͋̋̎̅̑̋̀̈́́̆̉̏̏̒̈̔̓̇͂́̔̅͑̕͘̚͘͝͝­­̛̄̃̎̿̒͆́̽͂̑̒͑́̈́͊̌͑̑͗̅̄̉̿̄͗̂̅̓͋̂̄̌̈̅͂̾̀̍̎́̆́̂̈͛̃̋̇̐̽̅́͐̆̐̆̈́̚̚̕͘͝­̊­̨̧̛̤͚̮͕̮͚̪̭̭̺̘̹͈̣͎̬̠̘͔͙̘̱̹̲͚̰̥̪̫̜̬̰͙͓̖̙̫̙̤̯̻̹̭͔͕̬̹͔̓͛̓̑̀̾̓̆̎̐̀͝­̮̰­̨̨͙̹̺̺̪͇͍̙̣̹͍͇̯̪͈̬͕̣̯̱̖̤̪̹̼̦͚͎̘̫̞͎̜̼̲̗͎͍̣̹̠̪̺̖͉̻̩̰̰̼̙̣͉͓̰͜͜͜ͅͅ­͚̣ͅ­̦̰̰̮͉ ̸̛̀̈́̉͌͐̊̀̃͒͗͒̌͒͌̈́͐̋͐̅̿̓́͛̃͊̌̍́͐̈́̑̀͒̀͆̏̀̓̀̽̓̇̐͊́̏̏̂͊͋̃͒̑̚̕̚̕͝͝͠͠͝͝­­̛̛̛̛̓͂͐̓̉̈͋̈́̈̅̐̉̃͆̎̊́̂̐̐̎̓̃͐͌͑̿̽͌͐̍͑͌͛̏̄͛͐̈͋̓̽͌͑͊̎͗̃̏̈̀̑̊͌̚̕͠͝͝͝­̾­̨͓͓̬͈̝͕̘͙͉̬̲͓͖̻͍̤͉̈́͒͊̑͐̏̌̏̈̿͌̂͒̉͋̊̆͂̀͛̈́͒̔̓̌̄̒̐͋͋̈́̈́̎̈́̌̐͗͘̕͘͜͝͝͝ͅ­̹̦­̧̢̨̢͔͚̘͕̣̙͓͎̥͙͔̖͕̣͉̱̰͖̝̝̦͔͎͉̰ͅͅͅ ̸̛̛̛̊̇͛͑̏̓̃̈̅̎̃̔̇̓͒͑̑͛̿̂̅͛͌̋̆͐̿̑͛͒̂͐̃́̅̆̉͛͐̿́̍̈͆̌̆̓̓̿͐͗͘͘̕͝͝͝͠͝͝͝­­̢̢̨̡̡̣͎̦͖̼̝̜̫̯̦͙̻̺̪̝̰͉̪̙̥͙̱̰̞̗̖̭̩̯̣̝͉͙͉̬̲̯̼͉̒̏̉̎͛̈́̃͒͛͆̾̈́͋́̚͜͜͠͝ͅ­̪­̧̨̡̨̨̧̡̗̤̗̫͕̯̲̯̰̫̖̦̼̜̬̞̯̗̙̜̟͔̭̰͖̼͉̘̮͇̰̺̭̩̹̩̭̰͍̖̮͔̝͔̤̻͙͎̳̟̝̣͜͜ͅͅ­͕̘­͔̟ ̴̛̛̛̓͆̅̑͆̉͑̌͐̽̃̇͋͋͋͒͊͑̄͛̌̾̈̌́͌̂̏̔̂̆̿̅͛̔̀́̋̿̔̀̓̽̀̈͆̂͂̒̀̚͘̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͠͝­­̨̢̡̛̗͇̫͈̲͙͍̜̙͓͇͎̪̟̪̞͈̣̼̱̳̠̺̰̣̪͎̮̳̜̙̗̤̦͍͙͎̦̣͐͌̃̐̍̊̊̔͊̌̆̎̓̈́̽́̎͒̈́͘͝­̫­̨̨̥̙͇̙̠̻̜͔̘͜ ̶̛̓͑̿̊͐̒͋̍̇̎̽̆͋̅̔̅͗͋̀͗͗̇̎̈͌͛͂̆̎͑͊̏̉̄̐̑̆̍͑̌͌̅͆̍̍͗͑̐̍̉̂̿̀̔̅̉́̚͘͘͝͝͝­­͑̑̆̌̄̓͗͋̔̊̀̽̈́̓̈́͊̉̍͒̅̍̾̿̐̽̃̃̋́̄̒̈́̓̾̊̊̂͋̑̊̓̌̓̋̅̋͋̐̆̀̑̋̀̒͒̾̅̒͘͘͘͠͠͝­͆­̧̢̨̡̱͓͔͖̺͍̜̦̬͇̹͕̣̘̺͉̮̱̼͕͈̞̹̱̺̯͚̲͖̪̲̱͓̱̖͓̼͖̖̠̣͉̭̥̯̼͈̲͈̒́̚͜ͅͅ ̸̡̡̡̛̰̱̠͉̠͕͚͓̹̯͕̩̤̬̩̰̥̻̘͍̲̪̰̰̭͔̤̖͕̳̙̤̹̞̻̇͆͑̔̐̊̈́͐̌̆̽͂̑̊̓͌̄̕̚͘͘̚͜ͅͅ­­̨̨̢̢̢̡͖̣̲̼͈̳͕͉͍͓͇̻̲͖͇̞͖͙̺̠̩͍͎̤̙̜̯̻̺̦͚̼̘̠̯͔̲̙̰̳̬̼̭̣͇̰̯̘͍̥̮̱̤͎̱͕̼ͅ­̠­̢̨̧̡̨̪̼̝̱̺̼̖͈͖̝͎͓̱̣̯̳̝̜̣̲̭̜̻͈̝̫̟͍̼͈̮̭̺̲̟̰̞̙̖̘̱͈̱̖̠̲̮̩͍̻̫̖͙̳͓͉̺͎­̡̦­̧͇͔̙̣̬̺̖̯̟͓̟̥͓̘̻̫ ̶̛̾̅̌͌̀͑́̀̀͗͛͋͊̀̊̅̊̐̃͒͑̀͗̽̊̓̒́͂̐̉̎̈̈́̓̀̑͛̈́̆̋̋̉̃̆͊͛̑̈̉̓̂͊̓̋̅̀̚̕̚͘̕̚­­̡̤̲̤͔̬̦̼̾̍͑̎̀͌̃̇̆̀͐͆̋̽̀͛̽͑̎͋̔͑̏̐̏́̾̑̽̿̆̿̃́̍͂̓͐̈́̔͗̍̅͐̌̈̈́̌̿̊̈́̓͘͝͝ͅ­̞­̧̨̨̡̧̧͍̜̝̘͉̗̦͕̗̘̯̯̲̳̜̤͇̯̠̪͍̦̝̻̺͖͎̰̘̟̙̣̼̩̯̗̙̠̲͍̟̮̳̻͎̩͉̱̣̰͖͖͜͜͜ͅͅ­̞͕­̡̧̠̬͕̪̗̙̼̮͓̯̝̰͎̮͖̙̰̝̺͕̬͖͎̳̯̮͍̠̰̥̠̜̯̖̬͇͉͖̱̙̜̱͓̮̠̼̩̹͈̜̫͔̺̫̩̤͜͜͜͜­̨̲̗­̣ ̸̛̛̌͌͛̈̿͌́̈̑͛̌͐̐͐͛̿̓̔̄̉̓̌̌̊̈̋́̀́̿̔̈́̇̐̐̈́͛͛̈́̂̏͐̍̐̀͌̉͑̒͘̚̚͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͠­­̛̛̛̛́̒͋̃̈̔̆̎̈̑̾̉̈́̊̀̐͛̐̀̒̌̂͂͂̓̓̇͛͋̐̓̊̉͛̋͆̏̋̽̑̉̈͑̿͌̎̿͋͗͌̇̓́͗͑͒̈͘͝͠­̐­̨̢̧̧̤̤̥͕̟̠͔̥̟̯̫̺̗̻̬̳͙̼̥͉̮̥̫̼̺̗̙̥̪͓̰̘̘̺͈͇̥͖̺̬̘͇͉͔̬̋́̽̀̓̾̔͑͛́̾͘͘ͅ­͉̪­̢̡̳̳̹͔͙̫̞̟̩͖̘ ̸̛͐͌̽̈́̾̒̓̊͋̊̂̀̽͛̒̐̆͑̎͆̌͛̉͛̾͑̏̎̑̔̃̓̍͑͋̓͊͊̈͒̔̈͗͆̆͋̑̐̋̃́̈́̚͘̚̕̚̕͝͝͠͝͠­­̛̛̃̀̊͌̉̓͌͋͛̾͑́͌͗̌͋́̊̓͗̈́͛͒͆̅͊͌̓̐̔͐̇͋̾̑̆͆́̌͌́̽̈́̍̊̉̉́̌̈́̄̈͋̈́̀̈́̚͘͘͠͝͝­́­̯͎͕͎̓̌̈́̑͊̑̂̇̿̌̂̇̈́́̿̒͋̇́̀́͂͂͠͝͝ ̷̀̅̉̾͗̿̓̈́͌̇͛̔̈́͊͛̑̾̋́̄̌̍̽̿͗̈̒̑̋͛͊͒͐̏̓̇̌̈́̃̄̋̆͂̀̆͗͋͆̑̔̾̅̓́̀̀͊̎́̚͝͝͝͝­­̡̨̧̛̗͙̹̥̦̼͎̫̞͈͈̜̼̪̭̗̫̠̯̲͔̹̫̤̟̻͉͎̞͑͒̾̏̈́̍̉̇̅̆̈̀͌̓̍́̏̽̎̅͌̈̇̏̓͘̚̚͠͠ͅ­̰­̢̨̼͔̘̟̱̟̝̲͇̭̜ͅ ̴̛̛̓̒̓̒̉̒̍̓́͐̒̒̄͗̒͂̾͋͗̎̈͆͒̾̊͊̈́̀̋̈̑̊̋̈̾̋̈́͋̇͆̓̑̋̓́̂̏̂̀̇̑̚̚̚̕̕͝͠͠͠͠͠­­̛̛̛̛͍̖͙̣͔̩̩̘̬̱͔̟̳̟͔̿̊̈͌̏̈́̀͂͆͐̌͋͌́̌̊̇̃̂̿̾̆̀̽̔͊̋͆̊̃̾́̎͛̓̂͑̆̌̚̚̚͝͠͝­͕­̨̡̧̧̨̦̠̯̯̫̺͖̣̟͖̪̪͕̲̻͍̟̝͕̗̰͓͍̭̤̞̥̰͉͉͎̙̩̤̺̜͕̞̥̮ͅ ̸̛̛̀͑͐́̓́́̈́̋̈́̑̂̀͂̾̍͊̂̇̏͆̓̅̈͗̉́̓͌̅̒͗̋̍̓̋͗̄̎̄͌͑͌̌̌̀̐͐̈̃͛̍̚̚̚͠͠͠͝͝͝͝­­̛̈́̔̂̾̏́̇̂̐̃̐͗̆̾̾̐̃̂̀͊̊̆̂͛̈̋̈̈́̓̒̑̓̎̓̊̈́̌̈́͐̉̄̓̑̄̍̀͋̂͋̄̋̔̊͌̆͂̾͝͠͝͠͝͝­̀­̡̢̧̣͚̲̗̭̤̗̹͎͈̤͖̠̺͈̘̻̜̳̼͇̫̤̬̣̹͎̯̦̙̤͐̀͌͒͐̈͆͊͛͐͆̀̏͒̿̈̿̑̽̎̋̚͘͝͝͝͠ͅͅ­̳̬­̫͉̪̝̟̪ ̴̛̛̱̦̯̯́͑͗͒̉̂̈͌̓̓͌͌̓̇̀̆͆̓̂̂́̅̀͌̓̈̉̓̇͆̋̍̂͒͌͗̈́͌̎̾͑̏̈́͂͒͗̊̅̾̑͐͘̕̚͠͝ͅ­­̨̨̢̨͔͈̺͕̭̼̺͚̘̥̩͇̣̳̭̤͔͕̳͚̦̤͎̯̼̰̘͎͙͙̝̞̖̝̘̹̥̫͚̺͓̥̥͇̱̝͓͎̩͈̖̘̫̻͔̖͜͜͜ͅ­̩­̨̧̢̡̼̰͇̹̮͍͚̼͚̹̘͎̖͙̙̫̖̠͔̞͍̳̤͚͉̠̲̺̞ ̷̲͍̝̰͖̩̰̟̓̒͒̏̏̃̏ ̶̛̛̔̀͊́̊̅̿̆͐̒͐̅́͊̈̍̔̔͑̐̔̔̉̍̈́̔͆̄͋̅̿̈͌̆̉̒̋̈́̓̂̓̀̆͂̔̊̍̈͗̎̓͒̚͘͘̚̕̚͠͝͝͝­­̛̛̛̊̃̋̆͋̓͋͋͊̀̎̄̏̌́̈́́̋̓̿̌̇͂͐̍͊͑̈́̀̿̈́̀̃́̈́̅̅̔̓̊̾̎̔̒̀̾͐͂̀̈̈́̓̐̽̚̕͝͝͠͝͝­̉­̡̧̧̭͍͓̼͇̱̥̯̞̩̰̟̬̦͚͈̪̬͖̬͈̦̭̗̮̺̠̼̲̊̄̅̀̍͑̌̾̊̔̊͛̀̄̃̉͛̂̀̔̄́̈́̕͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅ­̱̯­̡̢̧̢̡̲͍̳͙̼̱̜̟̪̼̙̗͕͉̦̦̥̱̞̱͓̬͚̝̰͍͔̬̪̥̦̩̱̙̠͚͈̝̣̬͍̠̭̦̣̝̬͍̯͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅ­̟̠͈­̢̡̨̡̡̢͎̙̥̭̳͖̩̭͇͎̲͍̹͇̩͙̣͉̺̮͉̹͇̰̯͖̪̤̟̩̱̪̩̩̰͉̬̜̟̗͙̻̥̖̩̻̱̣̖͇̥̝̰͜ͅ­̥̼̮̜­̨̧̢͖̥̳̫̯̠͍̗͇͜𝚛̛̺͇͛ ̸̢̨̢̢̡͖͓̩̜̘̣͓̫̗̺̺̲̬̗̠̤͎͙̜̩̙͓͚͇͔͕̱̜͉̭̬̳͍̩̪̝͔̓̍̿̈́̀́́͌̔̆̂͆̑̐̂̍̔̕̚͜͜ͅ­̧̟͎̦̤͙̼͚̫̙̯ ̶͙͕͕̮͒̂̊̾͌̒̚ ̴̨͓̘̗̣͎̭̣̣̼͇̱͕̠͑̈́̀̑̋̅̀̀̈́́̕͘͜ ̶͔̝̭̞͍̯̠͔̫̯̭͉͔̘̲̥̯̗̙͔̜̙͈̻̞̥̫̖̮͕̖̔̀̐͋͆͗͂͂͒̂̀̒̃̎͋̂̿͛̍͗̋̀̊̈͌͝͠͠͠͠͠ͅͅ­̢̮̦̩̝̠̝̯͕̞͈̰͎̫̰͈̘̹͎̯̭͜ͅ ̷̛̘͔͎̘̻̦̄̓͌͊̓̅͒̾̈́̔̈́͑́̾̈̎̀̈́̅͛̾̾̂̿̇̈͐̍̄̌̄̒̉̐̽̏̊͑̀̅̄́͒̽́͘̚͘̕͘͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅ­̢̧̢̡̢̢̧̳̲͎̞͚̥̺͎̰̘̩͉͔͔̟̞̜̼̻̠͍͖̻̳͔̩͈͚̟̳̻̜̻̗͇̦̼͔͚͔̯̭̜͚̺͜͜ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̢̢̢̛̼̤̦̫̹̰͙̼͉̠̩̤̦̲͖̹̙̩̗͙͉̜̟̱̝̤̦̝̘̭̹͈̋͋̾̍̅̀̂͑̅̊̍̂̉̒̈́̎̃̽̇̊̍̕͜͝ͅ­̨̨̢̤̙̻̦̟̝̼̫̦͍̬̹͚̭̬̲͇̙̲͉͍̮̤͇͉͈̦͜ ̸̋͛̑͂͗̑͋̌̓̓̂̈́͐̓̈́͑̂͛͌͋̒̈̓̅̈́͐̾̏̈́̀̈́̈́̅̓̓͒͐̉̃̔̔̈́͑͗̀̇̈́̀̍̕͘͘̚̕͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͠͠͠­̧̧̧̡̢̰̺̙̤͕͚̬̗̞̰̮̼̰̺̦̲̻̖͖̳͖̱̹͖̱̱͚͍̯̰̱͚̳̝̙̳̘̖̮͚̹̫̪̯̖̰͖͉̻̣̥̫̲̮̜͔̤͚͜ͅ­̨͎̰̯̺̯͙̺͔̳̹ ̴̢̯̳̟̟͓̝̞̺͓͖̗̦̜̹̖́͊̒̒͒̓̉̒̔̔̀̌͋̄̎̅̑̄̈́͗͗͂͌̾̆̿͆̋̀̄̀̽̌̃̉̔̍̀͋͊̽̾͗̾͘̕̚͝­̨̨̨̙̖̻̺̬͓̮͔̜͉̹͎̞̹̜̥̩̖̩̰̤̥͔̣̺̰̞̘̮͜͜ ̴̧̨̠̭̻̳͎̣̥̮̰̻̳͖̰͎͖̬͂̈́̀͂͌̀̅͐̃̋͗̃́̇̄͂͋̽̉̅̈́̐̀̿̆͋̐̇̇͑̈́͗̃̾̊̀̔̿̕͘̚̚͘͜͠͝­̨̧̜͕͕̯͓͙͓̟̤͕͍͈̹̺͚̖̳͍̲͓̦̹͖͙͖̰̳̠̗̖͙̭̻̺̘͇͖̖̘̖͓̳̺̗͜ ̶͚̪̖̍͒̓̽̿̈́̊̀̉͋̿́̓̈̈́̏̓̓̔̀̄̃̊̅͂̈́̂̊̀̄͆̋̓̍͑͌͒̊̇̉͑̈́̅̋͊̔̔̔͆͋͐̈́̍͂̕̕͜͠͠͝͝­̢̧̨̢̗̠̤̞̙̯̜̫̜̞̗̼͔͎̼͍̺̜̻̭̟̤̘̥̗̺̮̟͉̗͖͍̳̩̮͖̤̠̙̮̭̦̭̱͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̬̌́̎̂̒̑̅̿͗̆̽̋̄̾̒̿̈̊̊̋̓͌̀̅̇̏̍͆͛́̐̃̎͗̊͌̃̃̌̋̑̀͌̅̀͗̒̉͐̅́͗̂͋̈̂͛̏̆͝͠­̢̨̡̢̨̡̢̧̢̡̡̧̨̨͚͍͓͔͚̟͙̤͕̖̦͓̥̳͖̻̭͓͓̩̖̪̘͕̭̰̘̬͙͍̫͚̠̬̜̻̼̫̩͖̠̳̩͖̫̯͓̗͍̳͜­̧͚͙̻̩̥͕̗̗̺ ̸̢̨̛̮̺̺͖̗̣͚̺͛̊̑͑͋͊̂̓́͊̌͗̀́͋̂̇̆̑̒̑́̈̌̈͂̇̓̐̿̀̀̄̕͘͘͘̚͠ ̷̧̢̨̛̛͖̤͔̳̦̣̤͕̜̳̬̣̙̪̱̳̭̹͓̦͇̥͊͒́͋̋̂̾͑̋͋̔͋̈̇̃͒̓̔͌͑̉̈̃͐̋͐̆̅͘̚͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅ­̡͉͇͎̞͉̱̮͓͕͍͉͜ ̸̡̛͙͙̩̩͓̫̀̐̍̒̋́̈́̈́̃̀͌̌̋̑͐̔͊̔͂͆̓͌͊̈́͆͒̌͂̃̏̎̾̏̅͊͘͘͘͜͝͠͝ ̵̢̨̛̛̮̤̦͈̣͙͕̪̭͎͎̰͙̤̝̲͙̬̬͕͕͍̝̬̦́̀̃̈́̅̈̓̆́́̈́͆͋̋̆́͆̈́̅̐̈̆͒̽́͒̂̂́͊͜͝͠͝͝­̧̢̧̧̳̟͉̻̯̘̬̖͖͔͕̺̦̮̪ ̴͍̪̩͈͋̐̉̆̒͋͗̌͂̍̀̓̊̄̈̑̎̄̓́̎̓̂̑͐̈́͐̈́̉͋͊͝͝ ̵̛̣̤̓͑̎̈́̈́̉̃̋͊́́̒͌͒̃̏̃̒̄͐̔͌͋͛̕͝͠͠ ̴̡̛̱̟͉̬͇̼̺̖̀̒̓͂̀̾̆̂̄̇̇̓̍́̉̅͋̎͑̏̌̓̍͊̋̓̂̀̎̈́͒̑̂̀͊͛̈́̇́́̓͆̇͘͘͘͘͝͠͝͝͝͠͝­̧̖̩̪͇͓̟̞̣̘̥̱͖̱̝̟̝͓̤͙͔̼͉̲̥̫̪̠͉̳̩̺̱̯̫͜͜͜ͅ ̵̛͐̆̆̅͛̀͛̂̎̐̍̃̎̋͗̍́̑͂͌̓̔̽̀̾̀̑̽͛͂͗̈̾̈͑͛̔͊͛̀̈́̅̐̔̈́͂̓̀̈́̂͆͌̓̃͋̀̓̀͊̕͝͠͠­̨̨̧̢̡̡̢̰͇͈͙͉̗̠͍̮͖͕̟̘͚͙͔̱̞̜̰͉͉̗̫̦̼̖͖̙͔̗͍̟̲̘͎̪͍̺̦̝͚̹̥̹̈͗̽̎̾̿̏̍̽̕͜ͅͅ­̧͔̣͕̮͙̺̱ͅ ̶͕̭̪̥̗̼̑̑̍̍̈́́̅̐͊̔̓͑͊̅͑̃̀̐͗̔͆̆͊̍͂͛̔͘͠ ̷̧̞̻̯͉̭̖͕̳̖̼̭̭͈͓̹͉̯̩͉̤̀̀̾̿͌̽̌̈́͛͝͠ͅͅ ̶̡̡̡̢̢̞̱͓̭͓̖̠̳̹̬͍͖͇̟̤͙̤͓̳̞̳͍̘̙̯̦̪̗̮͙͖͎̮̞̜͈̝͕͉̱͚͇̪̘͓̖̹͈͛̎̄͛̅̃͜͝͝ͅͅ­̡̡̢̬͓͚͍̦͙̮̘̖̱̪̻̼̳ͅ ̷̧̛̯͉̺͓̤͕̗̘̗̣̝͎͉͉͉͑̇̊̑͛͂̓̇͗̃͗̌́̈́̎̒̋̽̊̒̐͒́̈́͂̀͘̕̕̕͠͝͠ ̸̧̢̢̛̲̣̦̫͈̝̰̭͍̹̗̻̝̲̾̒̀̆̐̾͌̊̂̇̋͂̉͊̈́̒̋̈́̾͛̆͐̋̇̍̆͐̔̆͊̀̀̈́̽̐̊̎̈̕͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅ­̡̧̨̢̢̠̹̙̻̯̯̼̤̰̼̰͇̱̲̮̮̜̻̮͈ ̵̨̢͍̩͚̥̯̫̹̥̻̝͖̪̻͚̖́͊͒̋̃̾̅͌̏̓̽̀̅͌͑̂̽͑́̂̊́̕̕̕͝͝͝͠ ̸̧͔̜̪̱̦͉͚̪̙̹̝̙̝͓̰̝͈͗͋̅̐̋̂̐̆̐́̓̿͐̄̄̽̒͒̍͆̄͐̓̋̉̌̇̿̈́͑̐̈́̄̽̆̽͊͆̎͘͝͝͝͝͠͠­̡̧̧̧̡̨̢̨̧̧̘̣̳͙̣̤̳̤̠̞͚̘̦̫̤͉̦͙̩̮̲̰̼̼̣͚̼̬̹͙̻͚̰̞͕̟͎͉̫̺̜̟͎̝͖͔̰͇̪͉͜ ̸̧̗̪͎̲̲͓̤̳̤̝̟̥̜̗̜͎̆͆́͂́̉̍͐̀̎̏̈́̊̊̆̃̈́̉̏͋̇̒̌̕͜͝ͅ ̶̨̧̧̢̪̩̟̤̰̦̺̰̳̟̼̟̟̹̰̳̝̞̫̮̜͕̝̝͖̻̙͈̜͉̘͔̲̲̯̝̜̗̘͇̗̭̮̞̺̬͖̱̯͉̯̑̔͂͆͊̀͜ͅͅ­̨̦̝̭͎̱̞̳̯̺͇̮͜ ̶̨̡̨̨̛̛̰͎͇̳̫̲͇̥̠̤̭̟̰̥͙͈̲͇̺͔͚̭̦͕͒̏͑̈̒̑̋͋́͛͂̽̔̂̊̇̊̏̄̽͛͑̽̉̓̚̚̕̚͘͠͝͝͝­̺͙̩̺̦̣̝̺͔̳̮̜͉̭̝̟͚̮͎͈͔̜͍ ̴̡̡̧̛̞̬̻̘̟̤̘̪͉̱̥̥̫͇͍̦͚̦͚̮̹̓̀̈́̓́͆̈́̇̉̿́̉͗̐͊̀̀̈́͂̑̈́̄̍̊͌̄̔̅̕͜͜͝ͅ ̸̛̹̆̎̓̽́̋̍̅͗̑̐̔̐́̄͋͊̊͒͐̂͂̆̍͊̓̊̈͂̑̾̏͆̈́̀̋̓̆̎̂̂͑͗̿́̅̉̏̉͛̍̊͘͘͘̕̚̕̚͘͠͝­̡̨̧̡̢̠̰̘͙̲̖͚͓̪̗̙͔̗̬̳̗̬͓̫̮̻̰̣̭̘̖͓̳̲͖̜̖̯̜̯̖̥͈̝͇͓͈͓̟̟͔̯̰̯̭̲̝͖̥͖͕̼͜ ̶̛̛̛͑̈́̿̆̂͌͒͒͊̅̋̋̅̈̑̒͋̓̌̎̔̀̂͛̐̍̇͋̔̈́̎̌̈̈́̈͐͑̍̆̓͋͑̿͛͂̑̊͌̑͐̎̚͘̕͘̕̕̚̚͝͠­̛̛͇̖̉̽͑̅́͒̐̋̈́ ̴̡̨̛͈̗̤͍̙̲͔̫̹͙̜̩̠̯͖̟̫̺̹̞̻͔̪̦̗̠̭̹͍̺̲͕̦̙̼̈́̅͌̾͛̔̅̋̈́͗̌͒̾͋̊̈́̾̄̍͌̌̃̕͝͝͝­̖̹͜ ̸̢̨̨̦̬̮̫̰̜͈͙̞͚̪͓͓̣͓̻̠̪̝̥̮̘̲̥̬̺͉͉̯̘͕̹͍̾͐̓̏͌̈̓͂̚͜ͅͅ ̷̢̛̛͔̼̺͖̘͚͉͂̑̋̎̓̅̏͒̈́͌̊̒̂͌̄̓̋́̈́́̍́͗̈́͌͗̑̈́̊̋̇̀͗̉̄̆̎͆͑̉̿̐̄̈́̈̆̑͘̕̕̕̚͘͝­̡̼̼͉̮̩̱̹̖͙̩̜͓̬̯̘̹̝̼̝̟͔̯̮̫̞̫͚̻̰̳͎̻̬̠̪͈ ̶̢̥͎̩͕̟̰̞͖͎̰̥̻͕͙̞̲̙̯͓̟̯̩̏͂͗͌̃͒̂̎̔̀̍͊̓̎̐̊͛͌̈́͐̾́̚̕͝͝͠ ̷̧̡̨̬̙̤̭̪͉͉̩̲̟̪̼̩̰̣̦͎̦͍͚̣͙̬̺̹̝̘̜̬́͜ͅͅ ̷̨̢̳̻̮͇̹̠̙͓̠̞̭̲͙̩̘̪̙͉̟̙̭̺̫̫̰̠͚̞͉̤̙͖͉̺̹̭̥̔̏̑̀̽̏͑̄̈́̆̄̅͑͂̋̀́̒̆͒̚̕͜͝͝­̡̨͍͈͚̹̪̞̬̜̥̤̯̫̞̯̯̥̗̯̜̗̥͍͖̞̻͓̝̜͔̖͚͍̻̗̼͜͜ ̶̛̛͕̱̻͕̱̠̂̆͗͗̆̈́̓̊͆̒̐͑̉͊͌͌̐̊̽͂̿̿͑͂̊̑͋̿̂̆̍͐͗̈́͒͒͒̾̌̎͌̑̔̾̋̽͐̒̀̈́͌̕͘͜͠͠­̨̡̨̢̣̘̩̭̟̣̠̥̬̟̳̬̲̝̲̼̻̯̻̞͔̗̺̹̮͇̝̣̜͔̹̠̙͓̬̩͕͚̪̰͎̱̝̝̠͈͕̺̭͓̹̭̫̲̣̹͔̠͜͜ͅ­͚̦̗͙̰͓ͅ ̴̡̪̮̘̟̱̪̗̱̖̩̹̗̘̯̖̘̮͒́̔̍̊̐́̊̍͑̑͊͑̂͑͊͂̆̌̎̈́̏̄̉̏́̂̍̇͛̍͗́͆͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅ ̶̧̧̢̡̢̛͓͚̤̳̹̣͕̙͔̣̟̝̮̟͛̇͂͒̈́̈́̇͐̾̇̈́̑͗̿̒̿̍̏͆͛̔̐̀̀́́̀͆͋̑́̃̀̇͗͘̚͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅ­̧̡̤̦̼̗̣̜͍̭̫̗̩̫̠̱͍̻̼̘̳͕̞̺͇̲͖̣̭̱̬̣̞̳̟̜͙̣͓͓̘̺͇̠̺̱̩̹̟̗͍̥ͅ ̵̛̛͚͕̝͎̯̱̪͚̼̜̠̍̓̂̔͆̈͗̏̉̉̅̈́̀̇̄̔̇̐͆̀́̐̊͗͒̓͂̏̆́̈́̑̀́́̈́̎̊̍͑̓͛͋͒̉̕͘͠͝͝͠­̭̭͇̦̮̟̳̣̳͙̟̮̮̹̩̪͜ ̸̢̢̡̨̢̡̡̬̠̗̟̮̩̗̗͇̮͚̹͈̜̪͙͍͈̘̮̥̻̜͕͓̦̞̥̯̯̠͎͚̮̭̦̩͛̅͂̒͛̾̿͋̎̏̍͗̈́̂͋̓̈̇͘ͅ­̨̱̦͓̗̬̪͕̬̹̤̰͈̙̜ ̵̡̨͕͇͕͎͕̲͔̯̹͍̩̲͍̥̜͓̰͍̼̥̙͔͇̺͉̜͍̫͙̝͖̯̙͆͛̒̀̈́̌́̎̇̍͐̄͝͠”


Her howl  
                        becomes a dissonance
                                         that folds                     all existence.
She is a god without hands,                  screaming              at love           for having           fingers.

I hold him                         tighter.
Let her                    drown herself                      in                    her delusion.

I rise.

But I cannot                  
stand   any               
       longer.                                  

                          
   So                                        

I                       


      
dissolve.



Skin releases into air.
Hair vanishes into horizon-line.
Ribs fracture back into gust.
As I spiral upward.

And she closes her wound, a crashing sound that leaves no echo, just madness.

But it matters not what slander she aims toward the sky.

I am already gone.

I carry.

I return.

And she cannot follow.

And he will remember.


Just…

Just a moment…


Longer.

Two birds land beside me.

Not circling in the air to look down on me. Not fleeing. Not accusing. They… join me.

The tern— Alcyone. The Wind carried her away from here. And now she has returned. With a storm petrel.

I recognize that soul…

Ceyx.


I feel their weight settle next to me. I brace for words—sharp, deserved, condemning. But none come. Only silence. Just the soft lean of the storm petrel’s head against my shoulder. The brush of a wing along my arm. A breath shared between us— wordless and impossibly warm.

“Don’t.” The word slips through gritted teeth.
“Go.” Sharper now. “Please—don’t forget what I’ve done to you.”

But they remain.


I press my palms hard into the stone. Try to hold my body still, composed... as if stillness could redeem me.

Why are they here? Why aren’t they afraid?
I ruined them. Tore at them with hands I thought were gentle. I—
A tremor moves up my arms.
“I don’t…” I clench my jaw. My voice is thin. “I don’t deserve this.”
Ceyx lowers his head again. Leans closer.

I recoil, quick and ugly.
“Don’t… do that.” I hiss, more at myself than him.
He withdraws... not in fear, but grace. He settles back. Gives me space. But doesn’t leave. Neither does she.
Why?


The silence thickens. My sorrow coils into something harder.
I grit my teeth. I stare at the bridge beneath me. My hands are shaking.

“I was so cruel,” I snap. “Not because I hated you— but because she told me to.”
My voice breaks open.
“She said you were broken. Fleeting. Mistakes. And I believed her.”
I laugh. It splinters in the air.
“She said I was mercy.”
I wipe at my face. My hand doesn’t stop trembling.
“She lied. Obviously. Obvious to everyone but me.”
They do not answer. But still, they remain.
I stare at them.

Ceyx, quiet, unmoving. Alcyone, head tilted. Still.
Why?

“I hurt you.” My voice is lower now. Threadbare.
“I’ve only ever caused pain. Because I wasn’t strong like you. You endured.”
My fists curl.
“You… Ceyx, you were taken and yet you still refused to be consumed. And you, Alcyone, even after being blamed, all alone, you never stopped looking.”
My voice shakes.
“And the Wind...” I pause. Swallow hard. “He faced what I ran from. He fought her. He gave you wings.”
I shake my head.
“I couldn’t even hold onto memory.”
My breath stutters.
“I’m worthless.”

Silence.

But they’re still here.

And… so am I.


I look past the edge of the bridge. And I lean toward the distance.
Let myself fold forward. Arms braced against the cold. Head bowed.

It isn’t punishment. Just rest.
I don’t rise.
I don’t run.
I exhale.

And I feel it.
Soft feathers at my arm again.
Ceyx, sitting upon my shoulder.
Alcyone, closer now, resting against my side.
This time, I do not pull away.
I let them stay.
I close my eyes.
They are warm.
They are real.
And they wait beside me.

The Wind said he would return. I did not understand. But I still believe him. I still have faith in him. That’s all I have.

This faith.


They haven’t left. And I’m still here.
I don’t know what that means.
But maybe it means I can wait.

Even if I don’t deserve to.

We sit. Three quiet shapes. Softened by something I cannot name.
We wait. For the one who gave them wings... the one I’ve somehow forgotten.

Not because it’s easy. Not because I am ready. But because...
Well, I want to see him again. I want to remember him. And patience is what it takes for that to happen.
So I stay.

I wait.

...

I have held empires in stillness,
But this waiting...

...

Waiting is a ***** to bear.

How in this **** universe am I supposed to be patient?

...

But there’s nothing I can do about it now, is there?
And The Wind, he’s the one fighting. He’s the one facing her, fate. He’s the one who gave them wings, who left so I wouldn’t have to return to my miserable ignorance…

This pain, is nothing compared to what you’re going through…

And even if the magnitude of this pain rose to meet infinity…
He…
He’s worth it.

So alright, let’s wait together.
At least…

At least I’m not alone.