Page 12 of Hollowed

I broke.

Not loudly.

But completely.

My hands curled into fists. My throat closed around a sob that felt like it had been living there since before I had a name. My body arched—not to resist, but to meet the weight of his truth.

He didn’t comfort me.

He stayed.

His hand. His silence. His presence.

That was the comfort.

He stood.

I wanted to follow.

But I didn’t.

Because stillness had become my offering.

He stepped behind me. I heard the basin shift. Water splash. Cloth wrung out once more.

He washed my thighs.

Not as a man.

As a priest.

Not to cleanse.

To remember.

He lifted one leg gently, bent it at the knee, and placed my foot flat against the slab.

He didn’t part me.

He didn’t touch the hunger.

He only pressed the cloth to the tender places.

And whispered,

“This is mine.”

Not as a threat.

As a truth.

He covered me again.

And I wept.

Because I hadn’t been touched.

Not truly.

---