The reflection that spoke
The waves were still in my ears when I came home.
I made tea instead of lemon water this time. The house was quiet. My daughter asleep. The night a soft hum.
I opened the journal. The page waited.
I wrote about the store. The people. The smell of salt at the beach. How the air felt different around me, almost listening.
Then my words slowed. My hand started to drift, writing what I hadn’t planned to.
The phone screen flashed in my mind.
Black background.
A silhouette appeared there once, a Pharaoh standing tall, and behind him, an African woman holding fruit. I remember staring, thinking maybe it was the reflection of light. But no, it was more than that. Something familiar. Like a sign that had been waiting for me to notice.
That was right before it started, the clicking in my arm. A sound that wasn’t supposed to be there. Soft at first, then clear.
Every time it happened, I felt a pulse through my body, like something ancient was trying to find its rhythm again.
I didn’t know what it meant then.
I just knew I wasn’t imagining it.
Tonight, writing it down, I can feel that same pulse moving under the skin. The compass has been pointing this way all along. I just didn’t realize it was me holding it.
