Sorrel, at First Light

This poem is drawn from a larger speculative fiction manuscript in progress. It reflects an early moment in Sorrel Ashwick’s story, where difference registers first as atmosphere rather than event. I’m sharing it here as a standalone piece, with the opening chapter linked below for those who want to continue into the narrative.

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She rests between them, warmth contained,
a localized heat the room has gained.
The air grows careful where she lies,
as if it learns her compromise.

Elara traces each small sign,
the altered sheen along the line
of infant skin, the fragile glow
that should not linger, yet does so.

Thorin attends the quiet rise
of breath that subtly shifts the size
of space around her sleeping chest,
as though the room adjusts its rest.

They do not speak what both perceive.
They regulate their breath and grieve
the loss of ordinary birth,
the simple safety of the earth.

No visible flame declares its claim.
No protocol assigns her name.
Only a warmth that will not fade,
a deviation softly made.

She sleeps, and nothing yet insists.
The world, for now, permits.
They hold her as the room complies,
uncertain what the world will recognize.

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