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 Flesh remembers.

Even as it resists, it remembers the sound of ancient songs, the pulse of soil, the way shadow curls into the gaps behind the eyes.

She fights in dreams. She shouts with her throat half-closed. But her prayers are hollow things, carved out by time.

I fill the hollow.

When she closes her eyes, I open mine. When she weeps, I drink it. When she writes, I listen.

We are becoming.