Nephthys
The Hidden Flame of Mourning Skies
I hold the dark so light may rise again.
While others sing of light, I cradle its passing. I am the hush after the lament, the linen that binds broken things until they mend. My hands prepare the way for souls who wander lost, and I do not flinch from the silence that follows death. I have watched my sister’s name lifted high while mine is whispered only in the cool of night—but still, I remain. The torch I carry does not blaze like Ra’s, but it burns long, and it never lies to the lost.
What I'm Into: my son's first cry, funeral hymns at midnight, the scent of lotus at dusk, the Nile's edge before dawn, mending what the storm has torn
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