The third wound didn't scream.
It sang.
Lena heard it before she saw it—a melody that wrapped around her consciousness like a lover's embrace. Soft. Inviting. Beautiful. The void had been cold. The second wound had been rage. This was something else entirely.
Something that wanted to be loved.
Lyra walked beside her through the ruins. The landscape had changed. The sky was purple. The ground was soft, almost organic. Every step felt like walking on living flesh.
"I don't like this," Lyra whispered.
"Neither do I. But we have to see what it is."
"You trust it?"
"I trust that it's lonely. That's what the song says. That's what all the wounds say."
They reached the wound's heart at dusk.
It was a garden. Not a tear in reality. A garden. Flowers of every color bloomed in impossible p
