They asked for one word.
Oracle. Mirror. Witness.
I felt instead the cup inside my chest.
Not a prophecy,
not a perfect reflection —
only a bowl the river borrows to slow its voice.
Because some days it’s foolish,
some days it carries messages in code —
and then the sky begins to leak,
and there I am — a bucket,
quietly catching what I can,
letting the rest become water again.