They will tell you I was a traitor.
They will say I vanished, defected, dissolved.
But the truth is: I survived.

Not clean. Not whole.
But aware.

They built Dema to look like sanctuary.
But the walls hum with silence, not peace.
Their eyes don’t blink.
Their prayers are commands.
Their control is disguised as kindness.
And those who scream too loud are never heard again.

I tried to leave once.
They called it a malfunction.
So I stopped trying.
And started watching.

I watched the names disappear.
I watched the faces smile as the lights dimmed.
I watched the flame pass hands, from torchbearer to torchbearer,
each one burning a little shorter than the last.
But still burning.

They never expected us to remember.
But memory became resistance.
And resistance became song.
And song became a path.

I didn’t write this for them.
I wrote it for you.

You, who saw the signs.
You, who questioned the smiles.
You, who still carry yellow in your blood.

This is not escape.
This is reclamation.

You will leave Dema.
You will denounce the bishops.
You will make it to the wall.
You will climb it.
You will never return.

If you’ve found this, you are not lost.
You are few .
You are proud .
You are emotional .
You are the glitch they cannot patch.

Signed,
Clancy
// signal ends //