There was movement beneath the skin of the world—soft, rhythmic, like breath. Or wings. I don’t remember when I started hearing it, only that by the time it stopped, the thing was already waiting for me.
Not large. Not yet.
The stories never called it dangerous. They called it a beginning. The first phase. The hunger that doesn’t devour but plants. A seed. A twitch. A need you didn’t carry until it found you.
Its shape was deceptively subtle. Smooth at the tip, widening just enough to make you second-guess your readiness. A body built to slip in unnoticed and anchor somewhere deep. Not painful. Just… wrong in a way that felt good.
I didn’t resist. Not even when it flexed inside me. Not even when I felt something shift that I knew wasn’t mine.
You don’t fight a thing like that. You yield, and you wait. And after, you’re not quite empty.
You’re never empty again.
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