In the nest of her own making, kindling and bone, she tastes smoke on her tongue that isn't yet there. Three heartbeats from ignition. Two. The mathematics of transformation: everything must go. Even the dreams. Especially the dreams.
She remembers her last burning—centuries collapse to this: the moment before surrender, when every feather still believes in flight. But flight is the lie we tell ourselves between deaths. She knows the truth now: we don't rise because we're brave. We rise because ash is unbearable.
Tomorrow they'll paint her golden, call her symbol of resilience. They'll forget the screaming. They'll forget how fire takes its time, how hope dies last and loudest. What no myth mentions: the new phoenix remembers everything— each nerve ending's betrayal, each prayer that went unanswered. She carries her deaths like photo albums nobody wants to see.
In the nest of her own making, she strikes the first spark against her breast. This is not courage. This is the terrible wisdom of knowing that some transformations require nothing left to lose.