silent undoing

A wild flower flickered in the Monkey King's palm—small as proof, loud as a crown He taught it tricks of wind and riddle-speech, to cart the dusk and tumble kingdoms down Its petals rewrote maps: veins as poems, each fold a compass that makes old borders frown So from that stubborn bloom a new legend grew, stitching history to song and earning its own renown

The bloom began to inventory the impossible: receipts for storms, a ledger of vanished streets and small apologies It listed a moon with pockets, a compass that read which childhood you'd be tomorrow, a church spattered in origami birds Rivers were filed under "waiting," mountains cataloged by the taste of their shadows, borders stamped with lullaby signatures The Monkey King watched the list sign

So the bloom began to pare the ledgers into three-breath prayers, each entry a small sky pocketed moon emptied river holds a child's name until morning opens its palm origami church bows

The bloom threaded receipts into a litany, columns folding like hymnals and ink rising into voice Invoices chanted storms paid in thunder; the moon's emptied pocket tinkled with small forgiving coins He watched as debits softened into refrains; names once stamped returned as swellings of mercy Paper prayed itself blank; the origami church nodded and opened a choir of creases that let borders unsew

Ledgers lift their spines and march, ink-braids knotting the wind into banners Receipts peel like skins, scrawling manifestos of unpaid kindness across the low cloud The origami choir unfolds into flags; the moon's pocket unbuttons and scatters lullabies like confetti He watches, palm warm with the stubborn bloom, while paper stops praying and chooses its own kingdom

They opened the ledgers flat and read each border aloud, the words themselves folding into ordinance. The moon watched, its pocket emptied as witness, while mountains and rivers bowed and pledged their arcs. The origami church made a nave of creases; signatures ran like thread, stitching valley to valley. He closed his palm; the stubborn bloom pressed a petal into wet ink, and the world learned to

learn to relinquish: inked commandments unpeel in the hush between two heartbeats, maps unsew like patient ribbon; ridgelines fold toward themselves without clatter, signatures pale and sink into paper's sleep, names slipping back into the mouths that first named them, the bloom closed its petal and taught absence a grammar; the world's edges thinned into memory and eased away