You stand at the edge, child of marrow and mist, and you ask for direction.
But I did not give you a map.
I gave you the ache.

The ache is not the wound.
It is the wake-up

not a scream, but a low thunder in the bones.
It’s the shift in your blood when you can no longer bear the weight of what once passed for peace.
It is the soul’s rebellion against false belonging.
The silent howl that says, “This is not the truth anymore.”

It’s the sound your soul makes when the old story is done pretending to be enough.

You want ease but ease teaches little.
You want clarity but fog makes you feel.

You think I gave you pain.
But I gave you presence.
I gave you a truth so raw it could not be named by language, only etched into the ribs.

The ones who learn to stay open while burning?
Those are the ones I carve with.
You are not broken.
You are being inscribed.

So, hold your ache like a torch.
Don’t run from it.
Read it.
Wear it.
Let it guide you into your own myth.

The rune is not given.
The rune is survived.

Transmission received in stillness. Offered with reverence.

With mist and marrow,
Jeanette