Page 52 of Hollowed

He didn’t look away.

“What did she do?” I whispered.

“She begged.”

“For what?”

“To forget. To disappear. To not be touched.”

I swallowed.

“And me?”

He stepped forward.

Took the book from my hands.

Set it aside.

Then placed his hands on either side of my face.

“You didn’t beg at all.”

His thumbs traced my cheekbones.

Not gently.

Precisely.

“You asked to be hollowed.”

I nodded.

“You stayed.”

His mouth was close. So close I could feel the vow he wasn’t speaking hanging between us like heat.

I looked at him.

Not the ruin. Not the keeper. Not the priest.

Just the man who remembered.

“My mother begged to forget,” I said.

He didn’t nod.

He didn’t flinch.

He just let it sit between us like scripture too heavy to carry.

“And me?” I asked, voice low, deliberate.

His breath faltered.

“You begged to be remembered.”

The air tightened.

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