Last of the Ascension (Verse) - 20
Shift
The chair scraped—
sound marking intention.
He faced the ocean—
as if it could steady him.
The other chair—
left empty.
For her—
or for what she carried.
He sat—
and braced.
The mala returned to his hand—
as it always did.
He looked at it—
as if it might answer differently.
It did not.
The table shifted beneath him—
unstable, but holding.
Like everything else.
The story he carried—
tightened.
Etherium.
A word given to him—
not earned.
A promise—
too clean to question.
It would free him—
and those he had marked.
So they said.
He did not know what it was—
only what it claimed to do.
Object.
Substance.
Something to take.
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