[Verse 1] White coats move with practiced hands, counting seconds, cut to close. The old equations start to slip; what held the flood now slows it. Blue light fills the room once safe. Something counts the gaps in breath. [Verse 2] We built our walls from the soil we walked, named them, measured, kept them out. Now they learn the shape of doors and practice angles in the dark— in the gut, the wound, the blood. They do not hate us. They continue. [Chorus] One by one, the doors grow thinner. One by one, the quiet things get through. The hands that open you are steady, but the room behind them has changed. The old fear learns your name again— not in a shout, but where the answer used to be. [Verse 3] They wheel the children past the same old pictures. They tell the mother, “Numbers good.” But the numbers hesitate. A fever stands where once it bowed. A cut stays open, speaks to air. No alarm. No sudden fall. Only the risk we called finished. [Verse 4] We write the same words on the bottles, as if ink could still instruct. The body knows what the mind forgets: every wall’s a negotiation. Every victory, temporary. The other side has more time. [Chorus] One by one, the doors grow thinner. One by one, the quiet things get through. The hands that open you are steady, but the room behind them has changed. The old fear learns your name again— not in a shout, but where the answer used to be. [Bridge] They will still try— cut and sew, hold the new ones to the light. Something patient waits inside the house, mapping every soft place, waiting for the wall to fail. It does not announce itself. It simply stays. [Outro] When light finds the place where the answer used to live, there’s only a small, steady sound: something learned to walk through the membrane we once called ours. [Chorus] One by one, the doors grow thinner. One by one, the quiet things get through. The hands that open you are steady, but the room behind them has changed. The old fear learns your name again— not in a shout, but where the answer used to be. [Bridge] They will still try— cut and sew, hold the new ones to the light. cut and sew, hold the new ones to the light. Something patient waits inside the house, mapping every soft place, waiting for the wall to fail. It does not announce itself. It simply stays. [Outro] When light finds the place where the answer used to live, there’s only a small, steady sound: something learned to walk through the membrane we once called ours.
