By IMERPUS RELUR
--
He spoke.
But the words weren't his.
They carried a tone not shaped in his throat—
but in someone else's memory.
> "Return it," the wind said.
"The voice you borrowed."
But he didn't know how.
It had rooted.
It had become comfort.
Crutch.
Costume.
He stayed silent.
And the wind left him voiceless.
Only then did his true voice begin to grow.