By IMERPUS RELUR
--
There was a sound, not of voice but of being.
It echoed like a child's memory of lightning—beautiful, terrifying, forgotten too soon.
Imer woke on the other side of the mirror.
No wounds.
No echoes.
Only stillness.
A figure sat waiting beneath a tree that had no roots—only light.
Its leaves fell upward, as if returning home.
The figure spoke without lips:
"You once had a name before language. Say it."
But Imer could not.
Every time he tried, another name from the world clung to his tongue—
Sinner.
Wanderer.
Son.
God.
Monster.
The tree dropped a leaf of flame.
It touched Imer's chest, and he remembered:
He was not the name.
He was the silence before someone else named him.
He opened his mouth. And this time, he said nothing—
And everything listened.