I opened my mouth to say my name and it came out wrong.
Not a slip. Not tired words. Something deep and stubborn changed the sound of me from the inside. “Rav—” became a ribbon that unraveled and rewove itself into a syllable I didn’t know how to own.
“Aeva,” I heard myself say. The air held the vowel like a coin. It felt like the first thing I’d ever stolen and the last thing I’d ever owed.
The world answered.
Leaves stilled, mid-shiver. The silver veins underfoot thudded in a lazy, monstrous rhythm. Somewhere a bird made a sound that might have been a laugh. The name sat on my tongue and then slid into the soil, and the soil accepted it—like a grave that had been waiting for a label.
I tried to pick it up, the old shape—Ravenna—and the shape slipped through me like smoke. Memory ret
