Mneme

You stay still, pressing your spine to the stone until the darkness learns your shape. Years bleed away before you can name them years. You cradle your wounds, terrified that healing will steal them from you. Then the stone gives. A crack, no wider than a breath. Through it: one star. Another. Then more sky than stone can hold. Before thought, your hands are at the crack. Your fingers find the lip of light, tighten, and refuse to let go.