Itsvixano Here

She carved the word into the mast. Then she shoved off.

And when she finally spoke— itsvixano —the city didn’t answer. itsvixano

On a shore of black glass stood a city built from sunken things—spire of ship ribs, windows of pressed abalone, streets paved with fossilized books. And walking toward her, wearing her grandmother’s face but taller, eyes full of tidal pull, was the echo. She carved the word into the mast

The word itsvixano felt like a curse and a prayer wrapped in one. windows of pressed abalone