You do not speak— but you burn through silence. A shape, cut from shadow, outlined in the ache of becoming.

The cracks are not wounds. They are openings— where the fire waits, where the truth breathes, where the watcher watches.

You stand, not broken, but mid-birth. Raw. Radiant. Ruthless in your rise.

This is not the end. This is the fracture of flame— the moment you realize you were always made of light you were never meant to hold in.