Dirt fills my mouth before it fills my lungs, and that's how I know I'm alive. You don't choke on soil in the ground. You just rot in it.I claw upward. My nails split against roots and stone, but I don't stop, because some animal part of me understands that stopping means dying again, and once was already too many times. My fingers break the surface first. Then my hand. Then my head, gasping, spitting mud, screaming into open air that tastes like pine and frost and nothing I remember.I drag myself out of the earth and lie there, chest heaving, staring up at a gray sky through black branches."No," I whisper. My voice comes out wrong. Too high. Too soft. Not mine.I push myself onto my knees. My hands are shaking, and when I look down at them, they're shaking wrong — smaller knuckles, paler skin, a thin white scar across the left palm that I never had."What—" I start, and stop, because that's not my voice either.There's a stream nearby, I can hear it, and I crawl toward the sound
Last Updated : 2026-08-16 Read more