PROLOGUE-The Crossing

Where the Hollow Breaks

Time is not a straight line.
It bends, folds, returns.
It opens like a body
willing to be touched
in the places it swore were closed.

I am made of those openings.
Two books rise from me now
one stitched with the echoes of what I survived,
the other threaded with the pulse
of who I’m becoming.

The past lives in a dim corridor
where shadows cling to their own silence,
where light enters only in thin, trembling lines.
But it is mine-
the ache, the softness, the half-remembered truths
I once tucked under my ribs.

The future breathes differently
sharp, bright, created in the space
between breath and bone.
It feels like standing on the threshold
of something unnamed
but already necessary.
A pulse wanting a name.
A self wanting a mouth.

And I am the crossing.
The narrow passage between what was
and what will be.
A hinge.
A fault line.
A place where ink becomes a door.

So here we begin
in the split,
in the seam,
in the sacred mess of becoming.

Two books.
Two versions of me.
Both true.
Both burning.

Let’s open them together.

Author's Note

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