Her silence was never empty.
It was wovenn
of forgotten languages,
of notes that once wept in light.
She did not speak.
She resonated.
Like sea-song in a shattered shell,
like moonlight humming through bone.
The voice they gave her was a cage.
polished, precise,
but hollow.
She wore it like a ghost wears skin.
They thought her quiet.
They never heard the tremor beneath.
But in her chest...
a cathedral of aching wind.
A siren’s prayer
spun from shadow and starlight.
The dream of a sound
not yet born.
She does not scream.
She does not shatter.
She glows.
And somewhere between every heartbeat,
she sings,
not with a voice they gave,
but with the one she kept hidden
in the folds of her longing.
An echo of who she truly is,
infinite, aching, free.