I was only trying to make space.
Sweep out the corners, clear a path for something new.
But old rooms don’t like to be disturbed.
They hiss when you move things that were meant to stay buried.
Tucked in the back, under a layer of dust and denial,
was a small velvet trap.
It looked harmless—maybe even precious.
But when I opened it, it bit back.
Inside were two little circles.
Perfect loops, no beginning or end—just like the story they belonged to.
I’d been blamed for their disappearance once.
Punished like a thief.
Carved into by the sharp edge of accusation,
when I was only ever the kid holding empty hands.
Turns out, the missing pieces were never missing.
Just hidden.
Just locked away where no one would look.
And yet, I was the one left with scars
while the velvet box slept soundly.
Some things we find when we clean a room.
Other things we find when we clean a wound.
Either way,
you never expect to bleed again from something you thought had healed.
Until next time,
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