The screen-glow pallor left upon my face.

I trade the hum of pixels for this place.

A bench of weathered wood, a lake of slate.

The weight of heirloom pearls, my sole estate.

A string that held the ghosts of yesterday…

…just gives way.

A soft *patter-pat* on weathered stone.

A liquid sigh, a deeply muffled tone.

Each milky moon descends into the deep,

Where ancient, tangled, muddy secrets sleep.

My history, a slow and sinking light…

…fades from sight.

Do I dive into the murky, cold, and unknown?

Clutch the past with hands turned blue as stone?

Or do I turn, and with a trembling breath,

Entrust my ghosts to what might be a stranger's death?

This is the value. This is the cost.

The moment that the line is crossed.

I see a figure walking on the path.

A silhouette that could invite no wrath.

But trust is just a thread, as fine as this.

A different kind of fragile, deep abyss.

To ask for help is just another leap…

…into the deep.

Do I dive into the murky, cold, and unknown?

Clutch the past with hands turned blue as stone?

Or do I turn, and with a trembling breath,

Entrust my ghosts to what might be a stranger's death?

This is the value. This is the cost.

The moment that the line is crossed.

The lake does not distinguish, truth be told.

Between a pearl and a mere stone it holds.

It swallows light and memory the same.

And never, ever whispers back a name.

What is more precious? What is the loss?

The heirloom pearl, or the faith to let it cross?

I watch the final ripple disappear.

The choice is made, the water's always clear.

I stand up from the bench, and turn my back.

I leave the pearls to the deep, and the black.

And feel the weight I carried… break its tether.

And I am lighter, in the cooling weather.