Pitiful, this breaking and entering. Pricking your Psyche, always the prettier sister.
She waits. No more dividing grains with the help of black insects—old news! Instead, she counts the hairs on her head, parting, cataloging, braiding. Pressing them into thick ropes of gold. They are heavy and precious, like a newborn is heavy and precious. Like your memory is heavy and precious. And braided. Psyche braids and braids, until her head weighs as much as stones and snaps her neck.
Not to mention rude.
You know that I will only allow you access to what I care to share. Some hardcore partitions went up years ago, in another millennium, built by mistakes and good intentions—but what is the difference?—with stone and string and bits of loving care so tiny and focused that no one can undo it. Not even me. Only the wind.