The Song that Bent the Light
Lilith stands at the edge of the first silence and speaks a word never before uttered—a word of self, unbound.
Before the wind learned to carry voices, before light bent itself into the shape of knowing, Lilith stood at the edge of the first silence.
She had been formed from the same dust as Adam, but where he sought shelter in the light, she embraced the shadows, where he bowed, she stood.
It was in that standing that she first spoke.
The word was not borrowed from the breath of another. It was not shaped in the mouth of gods or written in the bones of the earth. It was her own—a sound neither prayer nor curse, but something in between.
She did not know what she had spoken, only that the air trembled around it, the leaves shuddered in reply, and the river held its breath.
And then, she knew.
It was a word of being, of self unchained. A word that could not be taken back, could not be undone.
The Garden shivered. The animals turned away. Adam called for her, but his voice was smaller than it had ever been.
The word did not belong in Eden.
So she left, casting it behind her like a fallen feather, knowing it would root in the silence she had broken.
Over time, the word faded from human tongues, lost to the weight of laws and rewritten stories. But in certain moments—when someone stands unyielding, when exile is chosen over obedience, when a voice rises in defiance against its cage—the word stirs again, trembling in the marrow of the world, waiting to be spoken.
