She walks home with a basket of eggs, morning light dripping down her legs. The street hums soft, like it doesn’t know, how fragile things can break so slow. Each step a tremor, each breath a thread, a quiet prayer the cracks stay dead. The shells clink soft, like teeth on glass, the kind of sound that doesn’t pass. A hand, the wind, a shadow near, the world tilts sideways, soaked in fear. The basket falls, time bends, it begs, she watches life spill out of eggs. White and gold flood dirt and stone, and suddenly she’s not alone. She kneels, not crying, not awake, just tracing yolks she cannot remake. She tries to scoop them, trembling hands, but they slip through like foreign sands. Her dress soaks up what can’t be saved, the street just stares, the silence braves. And when it’s done, the air’s too still, her heart a clock she can’t refill. She gathers shards, cuts through her skin, as if the pain could hide the sin. By noon, the whispers start to bloom, each tongue a knife, each smile a wound. “They saw her drop them, all eight eggs, just let them crack between her legs.” “She should’ve showered, hid away, and not told anyone that day.” “Now look at her, poor rooster’s life, ruined ‘cause she couldn’t stay quiet.” Their laughter rings where truth decayed, their pity sharp, their mercy frayed. And though the shells are long since dried, their words still drip, unsatisfied. She walks again that same old street, with phantom yolk beneath her feet. The sun still burns, the world still spins, but she knows now, what breaking means.