He woke speaking it.
And somewhere, in an attic that no longer exists, a glass disc reforms itself from dust, waiting for the next curious finger. ogomovires
The moment his skin met glass, the Ogomovires woke. At first, nothing happened. Then the itch began—not on his skin, but behind his thoughts, as if someone were softly scratching at the inside of his skull. That night, he dreamed in a language he had never learned. Vowels bent backward. Consonants had genders. Time was a verb. He woke speaking it
The Ogomovires are patient. They are older than silence. And they have always been your mother tongue. End of story. He woke speaking it. And somewhere