Two suns opened their blind white eyes above the water. One watched the living. One watched the dead. Between them, the dark moon rose without permission, a black coin pressed into the mouth of heaven. The lake stopped breathing. The red earth held its tongue. The trees bent like witnesses who knew the name of the curse but feared to speak it. Saturn waited in the corner of the sky, old king of rings, keeper of debt, keeper of time, keeper of every oath made under bloodless light. Then the eclipse began. Not as shadow. Not as night. As a wound. The first sun burned. The second sun lied. The moon drank both and left only a circle of white fire where angels once claimed there was order. I saw the water turn into a mirror for the unborn. I saw stones remember the hands that buried them. I saw birds fall silent as if their songs had been bought by something older than God. Under that black center, I placed my name in the dirt. Not to be saved. Not to be forgiven. To be counted. Saturn counted once. The suns counted twice. The moon did not count. It only opened. And from inside its dark mouth came the old superstition: Do not wish during the eclipse. Do not pray beneath two suns. Do not look at Saturn when the moon has no face. Because what answers then is not light. It is the thing that light was made to hide.