The light did not ask who I was. It behaved as if it already knew. It moved with a calm familiarity, folding around me like a memory I had been trying to recall for years. There were no words, yet everything in me felt named.

I realized this was not the light of a lamp or a star. It was the first awareness— the moment before language, before history, before anyone had the power to rename me. Standing inside it, I felt the weight of borrowed identities slide off my shoulders, leaving only the shape of who I had always been.

The light showed me pieces of my journey: rivers I had crossed, fires I had survived, faces that had blessed me and faces that had wounded me. But it did not judge any of it. It simply held each scene the way a mother holds a child—firm, gentle, unafraid of the mess.

Then, without sound, the light called me by a name I cannot pronounce with my mouth, but my spirit recognized it instantly. It was not a title, not a role, not a human label. It was a vibration of belonging—a reminder that I did not begin when I was born.

When I woke, the room was dim, but everything looked slightly brighter, as if the light had followed me back through the crack between worlds. I understood that no matter what people choose to call me here, there is a first name written in the Origin that will never fade.