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The door hung open. Inside, a woman sat rocking. She had no face. Only smooth, dark skin where her features should have been. But I knew her. She was my mother. The one sold away when I was seven.
“Mama,” I whispered. My throat was dust.
My chest burned. My back burned too, though I dared not touch it. I remembered the lash from waking life—how it had carved rivers into my skin. In the dream, those rivers were weeping. I felt blood trickle down my thighs, warm at first, then cold as the swamp air found it.
She lifted a finger to where her lips would have been. Shh. Then she pointed to the corner.
The horn sounded again. Closer now. The dogs began to bay.
And the boy with my face was still there. Polishing. Smiling.
The faceless woman rocked faster. You, she said. Not with a mouth—with the air itself. That is you. Before you learned to run. Before you forgot how.
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