There is a weed leaking through the concrete, pool of green and yellow against resolute grey, the petals hope-delicate. She doesn’t know the name. She never needed to. She wishes she had.

She owns a name. She always has. No one knows, of course. They know her by a collection of labels of their own choosing - unit, woman, soldier, Seeker, S4-209. She can’t remember a time when stamps weren’t more important than names.

She hides hers, like chocolate.

The End

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