If this page endures beyond tonight,
let it hold what memory will soon refuse to keep.
There was a time before the Veil learned to choose
what truths it allowed to remain.
Before the Choir carved silence into the seams of history,
and before names could be taken
with nothing more than a whispered hymn.
I write these words for a boy
who will never read them—
a child whose hum does not belong to this age,
and whose existence the world will try to forget.
There is a note inside him,
older than doctrine,
older than the sky,
older than even my own fear.
A chord woven from a time
when memory was not yet caged in flesh and law.
They will call him an anomaly.
A flicker in the pulse.
A wrongness to be corrected.
But I have seen the truth behind his eyes.
He is not the danger—
he is the answer they cannot allow.
The ones who walk in shadow have already marked him.
They do not come for his life.
They come for his memory.
For the hum that does not belong in their quiet design.
If the sky breaks tonight,
if the world folds him into silence,
if they tear his name from every tongue—
I pray he remembers the echo
that first called him alive.
There is a hollow between notes
where erased things wait to be found again.
One day, when the Veil cracks
and the truth bleeds through its fractures,
he will hear me in that quiet.
Not in breath.
Not in voice.
But in the hum he carries.
Walk softly, little one.
The world is listening.