Because the courtyard remembers. Because winter returns with the same dry cough and the same name, whispered from the neighbor’s radio, from a half-shut door.
I feed it one regret at a time. They catch slowly, like wet wood. But they catch.
Angithee 2 does not roar. It hums the way a widow hums in the kitchen— not a song, just a frequency to keep the silence from freezing.