Òyì nke e mepụtara

it is made of. Light around your hand starts to bend slightly. Like it’s reacting to something inside you that shouldn’t be there. It starts in your bones. They don’t break. They don’t crack. They change. Slowly turning into something clear, precise, and impossible. Like glass forming itself inside your body. Your fingers still move. But they feel wrong now. Delayed. Fragile. Like they could ring if you tapped them. The room doesn’t react. It stays quiet. Indifferent. And as it spreads, yo