They warned me of the fire, but never told me why. There was ash upon the walls and an old scent in the coffee. [Verse 2] Windows closed by habit, like those who still fear crows. I knew nothing of the collapse, but dreamed of broken roofs and bones. They sewed it under my skin, a thread of shadow in my DNA. The fear wasn’t mine, but I learned to carry it. It came without voice or context, like a coat from another season. I tried to burn it, but it was too late: I already mistook it for my own breath. My father spoke little of winter, my mother stayed silent more than of heartbreak. At home they said “be cautious,” but what lingered was modern terror. Fear of the invisible, of change, of what doesn't fit the dictionary. Fear didn’t show in photos, but hid behind every closet. They sewed it under my skin, a thread of shadow in my DNA. The fear wasn’t mine, but I learned to carry it. It came without voice or context, like a coat from another season. I tried to burn it, but it was too late: I already mistook it for my own breath. I searched through history’s drawers: no war carries my name. But I found empty drawers, with dust neatly ordered by date. Inheritance of those who never spoke, legacy of those who never shouted. I was the keeper of the startle, never knowing what I guarded. They sewed it under my skin, a thread of shadow in my DNA. The fear wasn’t mine, but I learned to carry it. It came without voice or context, like a coat from another season. I tried to burn it, but it was too late: I already mistook it for my own breath. And now that the trembling is mine, I care for it as if it were real. Not out of devotion nor fate, but from ancestral habit.
