Murmurations
By Cristina Farinas
The radiator says my name before I know it. At night it breathes, a thin susurrus of syllables slipping through pipes, sighing me into existence.
Each morning I wake with different memories: a childhood among bees, mirrors for sisters, a staircase apologizing every other step, words like atlatls.
The radiator introduces me to someone with my own face. We shake hands until one of us becomes steam. The house hums. Waits.
Which version of me will condense first?
We dance as liquid beads across old metal until one of us thins, smiles. Vanishes.
Tonight there is only my name, unshared.
Cristina Farinas is a writer, probably. Her work explores environmental conservation, wildlife, and the self, though the self keeps moving. Her work has appeared around the globe. When she’s not writing, she’s taking photographs of things that may not exist by the time you see this.