In the marrow’s hush, a pulse forgets its name, threading silence through the ribs like frost on wire. No trumpet, no shroud—only the slow unspooling of breath that once believed it owned the air. Veins map a country no atlas will claim, rivers drying to chalk, borders erased by thirst. The heart, a struck bell, rings once in the dark, then folds its iron tongue into the night’s small mouth. Somewhere, a clock unwinds its spring, gears sighing into rust, hands surrendering to the gravity of hours no one will count. Skin loosens its grip on the ghost beneath, a glove discarded by a hand that never was. Ash remembers fire the way a scar remembers pain— not with heat, but with the shape of absence. The soul, a moth against the final pane, beats once, twice, then learns the glass is sky. And in that learning, the world tilts, a bowl spilling its last dark water. Nothing remains but the echo of a name whispered by wind to an empty room.