As I lay in the darkness, I heard a heartbeat not my own. I think it was always there, I was too afraid to hear it before. I was afraid of the cold and the dark and the awkward angles of my limbs. I was afraid of never being found, of being alone. I heard many things when I was still afraid.

I heard them look for me, but they were in the wrong place. I willed the trees to whisper on the wind, to call them closer. But they did not listen. I willed the flowers to grow above me, to spell my name in pink and white of their petals, to say ‘Here! Here I am!’ But they did not listen.

I heard the searchers drop out one by one; they took their dogs and their hopes and went back to their homes. I heard him come back once, much later, to make sure I remained undiscovered. And then I heard no one at all.

It was only then, alone in the silence, that I started to truly listen. I listened to the worms, blind and pink, as they took from me. “You are not alone,” they said. “Thank you,” they said. I felt the warmth and security of the dirt. And later I felt the sky as the birds that ate the worms took flight. I listened to the trees as they wrapped their roots around me, their embrace tight and full of need as they took from me. “You are not alone,” they said. “Thank you,” they said. I felt wind move through me and the sunlight shine down. Later I felt the axes, sharp and bright, and I was torn apart and put back together, carved into something different.

And then I listened to the heartbeat. Loud and strong and so very much like the one I had lost long ago. It was all around me, inside me. It was me. And it was the ocean on beaches and the slow movement of mountains and the footsteps of billions. “You are not alone,” it said.

“Thank you,” I said.