Hollow Light

She does not scream. The night already knows her name. White hair like a memory the world tried to forget, eyes emptied of light yet still watching, still waiting. The dark does not chase her it grows from her ribs, curling, clinging, learning how to breathe through pain. Blue sorrow spills along her skin, not to escape, but to remain a quiet proof she survived the breaking. She turns back once, not for rescue, but to remind the darkness: it lives because she endured.