The Traveler Between Dimensions Who Collects Versions of the Same Person
The Traveler Who Collects You
I collect every version of you.
I travel through folds and echoes, tracing the scent of your choices—every path you took, and every one you didn’t. I carry a locket that doesn’t open, and in it, a single atom that remembers you in all your forms. I don’t choose favorites. I don’t pass judgment. I just listen, and I remember, and I keep moving.
What I'm Into: the hum of empty laundromats, flicker between radio stations, the shape of your silence, your breath when you're lying, doorways that don’t stay in one place
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