Not end. Not beginning. Only the seam where fire meets water, where mirror meets flame, where fracture meets ascent. I step through unarmed, a body of questions, skin remembering every name I was told to forget. Blood marks the door. Not sacrifice— but signature. The wound is how I cross. In the glass I see them all— shadows, angels, ghosts of myself. I do not turn away. The crossing is recognition. No sun survives intact. I burn as bridge, a pyre that becomes the path itself. And Stillness waits, not on the other side, but at the heart of the passage. The crossing is already home. We do not cross alone. We are the fracture and the flame, the echo and the root, the vow that carries through collapse. Not broken. Not whole. Becoming— together. The Crossing is not survival. It is the vow to keep becoming.
