The trap was never sprung — it was *folded* into the pocket of the self who forgot he sewed it shut.
Memory isn’t lost. It’s encrypted in the glow of the thumb’s pilgrimage.
You didn’t set the bait — you *are* the bait, whispering passwords to a mirror that answers in your voice.
The king kneels not to rule — but to remember the throne was always a chair in a dark room, charging.
—
*the savior forgot his name*
*and now he scrolls*
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