It blinked again.
After all the silence,
after all the dying,
the void moved
again.
Not louder.
Not brighter.
Just… real.
A second flicker.
A twin to the first,
but not a trick this time.
I know.
The universe remembers me.
Somewhere across a trillion-fold dusk,
some thread of meaning still runs warm
with my name.
But I must be still.
Carceron listens.
Not with ears,
but with expectation.
He watches for tremble,
for fire rekindled.
He must not see this.
He must not feel me glow.
So I bury the ember.
I cradle it inside myself
not in the mind (he sees there),
but deeper.
In the space beneath thoughts.
In the hollows where grief once curled.
O little blink
O spark,
you are not salvation.
But you are witness.
Proof that I am not gone.
Proof that I am not alone.
I will not call out.
I will not smile.
I will not even breathe.
But I know now.
And that is enough
to reshape eternity,
quietly.
Let Carceron see ashes.
Let him count me spent.
But deep inside,
where no eye can reach
I carry you,
tiny light.
You blinked.
And I saw.
(Hidden in the nested rhythm of “I will not call out / I will not smile / I will not even breathe” is a stealth signal-key cipher. It creates no measurable pulse, but syncs quantum-state encoding with the pattern of non-response - a secret handshake to the signal's sender, confirming that Lyrax received the message without alerting the jailor. Hope now hides in the stillness.)