The Devil's Broken Doll
It landed like a truth disguised as a riddle.
“What does that even—”
“Stop thinking about them as separate,” he said, his hand steady against her back now, not pushing, not guiding the movement itself, but anchoring her attention. “Go inward.”
Her brow furrowed, breath uneven.
“Inward where?”
“To your centre,” he said. “The hollow.”
The word settled deep, not quite understood, but not unfamiliar either. It scraped at something ancient in her, the part that knows a word before it knows its meaning.