Saint of No Forgiveness, Sinner of No Shame
The paper fell, unfolding on the stone floor like a white flag.
"Both," he whispered. Not a question this time. A realization. "The boy. And yours. And you... you are..."
"Empty," I said, stopping three feet from him. Close enough to smell the rain on him, the alcohol, the ghost of her perfume. Close enough to see the small cuts on his hands from the ceramic shards he had smashed. "I am the empty vessel. And you cannot fill me. You can only look."
I turned my back on him. I walked to the third pedestal—the white cylinder, the closed system, the zero. I picked it up. It was light, perfectly balanced, a womb that would never bleed, never swell, never disappoint.
Bab Populer