How many years did you spend breaking your knuckles against the iron? How many songs did you tear from your lungs, wailing into the dark, demanding to be let out, until the copper taste of your own blood was the only thing keeping you awake? You sang until your throat was a graveyard of open raw nerves, until your chest felt like it was packed with wet cement. Listen to me. The lock clicked open already. There is nothing between you and the open sky but a draft of cold air. But you aren't moving. You’re looking so hard at the bars in front of your face you mistake the absence of pain for a trap. An open door, just another trick of the light. You are so lost in the exhaustion of screaming, drowned out by the echo of your own grief, that you are guarding a cell that has already been abandoned. Turn around. Just… turn your head. You don’t have to fly yet. You don’t even have to stand up. Your throat is too raw for a victory cry, and I know your chest is heavy. Turn around, little bird. You don't have to sing to the bars anymore. Turn around. And look at what you won. Mizuyōkaii, 2026 Dimensions: 5376x7200