The ascent begins, not clean, not holy, but real.
Rebirth here is smoke-stained, clawing its way up through ruin.
Still, it rises.
Ash remembers its form.
The fall was only a gesture.
Heat coils beneath the wreckage,
not seeking justice,
only movement.
It doesn’t rise clean.
It rises real.
What remains is not what we had—but what refuses to stay buried.
