Graffitied on a napkin at a café. The barista looked away when I asked about it.
The crowd dispersed. A new day began. Somewhere, on a freshly poured sidewalk, a child picked up a stick.
The word began to bleed into her dreams. She saw a city of silver towers beneath a green sun. People walked in slow, deliberate circles, their mouths moving in a silent chorus: afilmywa, afilmywa . It felt less like a language and more like a key. A key to what, she didn’t know.
She started a file. A black, leather-bound notebook she kept in her desk drawer.