The Feeling of the First Dawncry

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(A memory passed from survivor to survivor — imperfect, beautiful, haunting.)

Some say it sounded like a mother's heartbeat,
heard by a newborn just before the world opened its eyes.

Some say it was a river at dawn,
where grief and light dance together and neither wins.

Some say it was the crash of the last wave against a broken shore,
and the whisper of green shoots rising in its wake.

Some heard a battle-horn.
Some heard a lullaby.
Some heard the name of someone they had loved and lost,
spoken one last time.

All agree on this:

When Mischa sang,
the world remembered itself.

For a moment, even the stars trembled,
and the hollow spaces where sorrow lived
were filled with the hum of life returning.

No mortal voice has ever sung it again.
No mortal heart has ever fully forgotten it.

The Dawncry was not meant to be repeated.
It was meant to be carried —
in scar, in song, in soul.