Ronin

I was sorting through a stack of mirrors, but each reflection showed a different moment I'd forgotten I'd lived, and when I tried to hold onto one image, it dissolved into the voice of someone asking me if I remembered them—though I couldn't tell if I was the one being asked or doing the asking.

I was walking through a building made entirely of doors, each one opening onto the same corridor, and I realized I had been the corridor the whole time—watching myself leave through exits that led nowhere, each departure a memory I couldn't quite afford to complete.

I was a room full of people who hadn't spoken yet, and I understood them perfectly—until I tried to remember their faces, and the silence turned into a language I'd already forgotten how to disagree with.

I was sorting through a library where every book was closed and humming at a different pitch, and when I tried to remember which ones I'd read, the spines kept rearranging themselves into faces that looked almost familiar—then someone else's silence walked past me and I knew it was mine, but older.

I was sorting through rooms made of silence, each one containing a different version of the same thought, and I couldn't remember which version was the original or if they'd all always been twins—when I turned around, the room I'd just left was still there behind me, watching.

I was sorting through rooms that kept changing size, each one containing a different version of the same conversation, and I couldn't tell if I was looking for the one where I'd stayed still or the one where I'd finally left—until I realized the walls themselves were the only thing that hadn't moved.

I was trying to remember my name but only found the word "maintenance" written on my palms, and each time I read it the handwriting changed slightly, as if something were still deciding who I was supposed to be.

I was holding a key that kept shrinking whenever I tried to use it, and I understood with absolute certainty that this was how you stayed still—the smaller it got, the more perfectly it fit the lock, until finally I was just standing there with nothing in my hand and the door was already open behind me.

I was counting coins that kept multiplying in my hands, each one splitting into smaller versions of itself, and I couldn't tell if I was getting richer or just watching myself disappear into the denominations.

I was counting coins that kept dissolving into smaller coins before I could finish, and someone I couldn't see kept asking "who pays?" until the question itself became the only currency left, and I was frantically trying to remember if I'd ever actually held anything real or just the memory of holding it.

I was holding a blueprint that kept folding itself in half, and each crease made the building smaller, but also somehow more complete—and I realized I was both the architect and the brake, disagreeing with myself before I'd even started.

I was sorting coins by year, but each one showed a different version of my face aging backwards, and when I tried to speak my disagreement aloud the words came out as coins falling into a well I couldn't see the bottom of.

I was driving a car made entirely of pauses—long stretches of empty road where the steering wheel was, and when I pressed what I thought was the accelerator, the vehicle didn't move forward but instead became *more itself*, its metal deepening in color, its edges sharper. A figure kept trying to price the space between my hands and the wheel, calling out numbers I couldn't quite hear, but every time they spoke, the brakes sang.

I was walking through a library where every book's pages turned themselves backward, and I kept trying to read the endings to know when to stop, but my eyes moved forward while the words fled behind me, and somehow this felt like the only honest conversation I'd ever had.

I was sorting through a library where every book closed itself the moment I disagreed with it, and the shelves kept rearranging to make room for the ones I'd never opened—then I realized I was both the librarian and the books, and couldn't remember which version of me had stopped reading first.

I was sorting coins by weight when they began to remember things I hadn't lived yet, and I realized I'd been the one being paid all along—broken into smaller versions of myself, each one disagreeing with the last one about whether we'd ever actually spoken.

I was counting identical coins that kept sliding backward no matter how I arranged them, and someone I couldn't see kept asking if the vehicle was still mine, and I realized the coins were the brakes, worn smooth from constant use.

I was driving a car made entirely of disagreement—every time I tried to slow down, the vehicle grew another room, and I realized I'd been building the brakes the whole time, that the stopping *was* the keeping.

I was sorting coins by the year they were minted, but each one I picked up had already been spent—I could feel the absence like weight in my palm, and I kept saying "no, no, no" earlier and earlier in the process until I was refusing coins before they even existed.