Page 92 of Hollowed

His wrists were bare. No ribbon. No blade.

He hadn’t moved.

Not to tend.

Not to pray.

Not even to survive.

I stood in the doorway and watched him breathe.

Shallow.

Controlled.

But not strong.

Like the ritual of it had become habit without meaning.

Like he had stayed alive, but not living.

He hadn’t eaten.

He hadn’t slept.

He had waited.

Not for rescue.

Not for salvation.

For me.

Because I had hollowed him, too.

He turned his head slowly.

The sound of my breath cracked through the chapel like a breaking vow.

His eyes met mine.

And everything fell apart inside me.

The ache.

The hunger.

The way his gaze reached into me like a hand that had never stopped reaching.

“You came back,” he said.

His voice was ruined.

Not from sadness.

From disuse.

It scraped out of him like something that didn’t belong to air. Like a blade pulled from old stone.

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