Page 15 of Hollowed

It was recognition.

He closed the book. Bound it in black cloth.

And offered it to me.

Not like a gift.

Like a seal.

“If they ever ask who you are,” he said, “show them this.”

I reached for it with shaking hands.

Held it against my chest.

It was heavier than I expected.

But it didn’t crush me.

It anchored.

“Why?” I asked.

His voice didn’t change.

“Because I wrote you before the fire.”

I stared at him.

I didn’t ask how he knew.

I didn’t need to.

Some truths don’t need proof.

They just need to be spoken.

He reached out.

Pressed one finger to the center of my chest.

Right over the name he had just given back to me.

“You were never ash,” he said.

“You were always the flame.”

And I believed him.

I held that sentence inside me like it was a secret I hadn’t earned. Not yet. Not fully.

Because I had never been the flame.

I had been the girl wrapped in oil. The girl waiting for the fire to choose her. The girl who thought burning would be the end.

But it hadn’t ended me.

It had made space.

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