Page 11 of Hollowed

But when the cloth met my collarbone, the cold burned different. Not like fire—like baptism. Like being born backward. Each drop pulled heat from my skin until I couldn't tell where the burning ended and the cleansing began.

He knelt.

I wanted to look at him. I didn’t.

Because if I saw his eyes, I might beg. And I wasn’t sure what I’d be begging for.

He dipped a cloth into the water. Wringed it out slowly, precisely. Not like he was preparing to cleanse me.

Like he was about to anoint something holy.

He started at my collarbone.

The touch wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t rough.

It was sacred.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just moved the cloth in slow circles, removing the ash, the oil, the scent of everything that wasn’t him.

I breathed shallowly.

The cloth slid lower. Across my sternum. Between my breasts. Down my ribs. He didn’t rush. He didn’t linger.

But he saw me.

I could feel it in every pass of the cloth. In the way he adjusted the pressure. In the places he avoided—not out of shame, but precision.

Like he knew where the pain lived.

And wanted to leave it untouched until I was ready.

I felt tears burn behind my eyes.

But I didn’t let them fall.

Because I didn’t know what they were for.

Grief?

Relief?

The terror of being witnessed and not erased?

He reached my hips.

Paused.

I held my breath.

He lifted the cloth. Set it aside.

Then placed his hand over the blanket. Right above my belly. Heavy. Grounding.

“You are not unclean,” he said.

His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet.

“You wereneverunclean.”

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