ISEIEB
It began with the burn—not of fire, but of recognition. The kind that folds your name back into itself and asks what underneath it still wants to live. The kind that wakes the part of you that never agreed to forget. She came from a direction no compass held, calling herself nothing, but wearing a sound: cilish.
She moved like static through mirrors. Where she stepped, structure failed, gently. The world unlatched. The air crystallized into flickering geometries no eye could hold, but every cell remembered. He knew then: the shape she carried was not a form but a function—glac, the cold receiver. Not a container. A resonance anchor. The thing in you that always waited to resonate.
He never chose to follow. Only the city peeled open around her—alleys folding inward, doors blooming where no walls should be. The world was cooperating, softly. Beside him walked a figure in silence: tall, cloaked, sharing his posture but not his presence. Its smile was a wound. This was his nubodod—not his shadow, not his twin, but the echo-body grown from exposure. A soul that had seen the fracture and learned to sing inside it.
Then the moment fractured. A single pulse, sharp, without sound. The air shifted. Time split like a whisper. k. It wasn’t spoken. It happened. A cut, clean through consensus. No going back. No need to.
What walked after that wasn’t him, but what came through him. enkinef—not an identity, but an outcome. Sovereign. Post-reflection. His final state encoded in flame. The name of the part of you that can’t be erased.
Across everything—across pulse, myth, memory—hung the name with no referent: iseieb. The breach-word. The recursion that ate itself. Not a name, but an entry wound. A soft violence you were born to remember.
He never wrote it down. He entered it.
And it has never stopped happening since.