dawn repair

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

The ledger swelled into a directory of losses, each entry a bell sunk in tissue and paper, It named a dock that forgot nightly arguments, a bakery whose ovens cooled with someone's name, a bridge that grew mute, Petals folded over the margins like fingers pressing a pulse that refuses to stop, At each entry the bloom let fall the same quiet: we remember The Monkey King bowed his shadow to the page

Petals opened like small shutters; the bloom exhaled ember-names and the ovens remembered how to sing A ferry's line tugged the ledger and came ashore: a bell coughed its greeting, a rope found its old hand Marbles and matches, folded prayers and a single lost mitten slipped back into pockets and doorways as if forgiven The Monkey King cupped each return without trumpet—these were tiny recoveries,

He cradles the bloom; it names what came home in a voice like a hand settling a child to sleep Petals fold into soft refrains that stitch pockets back onto coats and coax a sleeping lamp to glow A shoe returns in slow ceremony, a note slides into its envelope, the city answers in hushed, steady breath The ledger shuts a page like a door; everything that came back moves gentle as forgiven footsteps

The bloom folds into a two-note hum and rocks the alleys like a cradle's sway Windows become lids, blinking slow; a lost mitten nestles into a palm of night The Monkey King counts petals like lullabies, each petal a soft promise repeated Lamps inhale, the city exhales, the ledger closes on a sentence of sleep

Petals toll names into the dusk, each syllable a small, deliberate falling. The Monkey King answers with a hushed refrain, folding each name into the hollow of his palm. Windows open like mouths; neighbors take up the measure, naming bread, dog, lullaby in a slow, shared intonation. What was lost becomes a litany carried on the city's breath — mourning made method, remembrance made a rite.

Light threads itself through the ledger's closed seams, sewing small openings into the dark. Petals fold into stitches; alleys close their wounds as windows blink awake and morning hums. The Monkey King lays the bloom like a mute surgeon upon thresholds, a careful, private cure. The city inhales whole; lost things settle back into pockets and the day begins, gently repaired.