the horn keeps its own track 

the shard warms in his grip,
a small crescent with a dusk‑lit core.
no script on it,
only a faint rise and fall
like breath caught in resin.

it brightens when the path bends.
it dims when he drifts toward the upper air.
it flares when the ground beneath him
starts to forget his weight.

he walks with it cupped in both hands,
a quiet tool,
a childhood remnant
that never learned how to lie.

in the under‑islands,
another boy feels a tug along the scar
where the crescent once grew.
he follows it through stone corridors,
through rooms that still carry
the heat of old machinery.

they meet at the inlet
where the sky folds low.
no triumph.
no collapse.
just two figures
and the small glow between them.

the shard steadies,
as if the world has stopped spinning
long enough
for both boys
to step out of the dark
without losing themselves.




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