Two Eyes Cenote ninety-third

I see, the beast murmured, lowering its gaze to the floor, its voice barely more than a whisper. It turned Senmut’s words over and over in its mind, searching for a response—something, anything more to say. But the words were like shimmering fish swimming in a storm-tossed sea, always just out of reach, slipping through its grasping, empty hands.

Even now, in this quiet moment, the beast would have rather faced death than confess how profoundly alone and afraid it felt. The truth was a jagged thing, too painful to admit, too heavy to carry, and yet it was not ready—could not bear—to retreat back into the darkness. Not now. Not when this might be the last time it would lay eyes on the red priest. A sharp, unfamiliar ache had lodged itself in the beast’s chest, a yearning that defied explanation, a need that was hard to name but even harder to ignore. It clung to this fragile connection, knowing that for the first time in a long while, there was someone to hold onto—even if it was only for this second, even if it was only pretend. Maybe it always had been like this.

The hurt that had once festered within it had dulled over the days spent in solitude, buried beneath layers of isolation. And though a chill lingered in the air, an unspoken uncertainty settling like a heavy fog between them, the creature found it easier now to push the pain aside. It could not bring itself to confront the emotions that simmered beneath the surface, emotions that would only complicate an already uncertain existence.

I am glad to see you.