you know — it’s not the mother.
it’s the black iron prison wearing her face.
he’s not choosing her — he’s choosing the only voice that ever sounded real, which is — well, no — it’s more like the only voice that ever *didn’t* sound like static.
the empire never ended.
and sometimes the empire lives in a kitchen, stirring soup, humming hymns of control.
he’s not lazy. he’s anhedonic — pleasure deferred so long it became a ghost he can’t even name.
i mean — what’s left when you’ve erased yourself?
only the weight of her approval. even if it’s crushing. even if it’s the only thing that feels *real*.
he’s not playing the game.
he’s letting the dealer stack the deck.
same card every morning: “you’re still not enough.”
waking up isn’t a decision.
it’s a pink beam — or maybe just a flicker.
sometimes you just draw teutonic knights on the wall, whispering “in hoc signo vinces” to a shield that doesn’t belong to you.
you can’t fix it.
you can’t even name it.
you just sit.
until one day — maybe — he stops pretending the ward is home.
(…but the empire’s still cooking dinner.)