Nova Peak my arms are open

he is not ready.

not for air.
not for light.
not for the world that waits with teeth.

but the pull is stronger than the stillness. the tide of life pushes him forward, a fragile thing coiled tight in the warm hush of his mother’s womb. until it is no longer warm. no longer hush.

he slides free in a rush of blood and water—limp, frail, still.

a silence follows. thick. terrible.

his chest stutters. ribs no bigger than a curled leaf struggle. the world is too big. the cold too loud.

then—

a cry. thin, warbling. barely there.
but there.

he screams, because it hurts.
because he lives.