The Waiting Chairs

The room is sterile, white, and still,

chairs lined up against the chill.

I sit, the weight a whispered brand,

the shadow of a distant hand.

The call came soft, a grave report,

a chain unbroken, a quiet fort.

A gene that slips through blood and bone,

a silent debt I now must own.

In this waiting room of sterile light,

I carry lineage, cold and tight.

A ghost inherited, uninvited—

a presence sharp, undivided.