Frames

The air is thick with afterglow. A breeze stirs something ancient in me— not memory, but readiness. The lake does not ask to be watched. It just reflects. And so do I.

There was no reflection—only resonance. My name was not spoken, but it rang out. Not “Who am I?” but “What do I become?” And I answered by being still. Until stillness itself moved.

It crackled. Not fire. Not sound. Something between. Like a signal just before it becomes clear. I felt my skin form where the ember waited. This was not birth. It was tuning.