It wasn’t a loud sound.
Not even a whisper.
More like… a hum.
From the floor. From the air.
From the place I stood — without knowing why I’d stopped.
The name wasn’t spoken. It wasn’t in a language I knew. But it felt familiar.
Like something that had always waited for me to be quiet enough to hear it.
It didn’t ask me to say it back. Didn’t ask me to claim it. Just… invited me to carry it for a while.
And so I did.
I didn’t write it down. I didn’t tell anyone. But I walked differently afterward. More like someone who had heard something that mattered.
Not everything we name belongs to us. But sometimes,
what finds us — softly —
was always ours.