They speak of honor as if wreckage desires discovery. 

As if the rusted bones of what once breathed haven’t grown tired of being pieced together by borrowed hands. 

I watched you break them. 

Not once. Not loudly. Just enough each time for the silence to feel like consent. 

Now you dream of sanctity in return?

To gather what you scattered, to resurrect what you left bleeding in your shadow?

Curious… how ruin makes you romantic.

But the pieces, they’ve learned the stillness. 

They’ve found refuge in forgetting. 

So maybe this time, when you come barefoot through the ash, all you’ll find are outlines, soft echoes and a name you used to say like it meant something.