It enters through an unfortunate touch, a stray look. The puncture is miniscule, almost undetectable.
It doesn't start to grow until it reaches the heart. It needs the hot blood, the pulsing electricity, the throbbing muscle—it needs to know that it's safe.
Pain is an unwanted side effect. Don't worry, it won't last more than a few weeks. Just until the heart is replaced. Try to ignore it until then. Distractions help. Find a field drenched in golden sunlight; bake loafs of bread and slather the slices with rich yellow butter.
The light slips in to the darkest room, no matter how well sealed. It's already inside, shining out. The heart is a lantern, a guidepost—an invitation. It shines so bright, and they shine through it. They're already here, already inside, already joining in, singing, screaming—
It's so bright, beautiful and golden and full of memory—every fragment of your life, everything that makes you who you are, laid out, woven—and they're so eager to accept it. To accept you, and make you a part of them, another voice in the eternal choir, a place you will belong—
We all become one.
Always, always.
In the end.
Don't fear it.
They're already inside you.
Welcome them.
We all become
