I feel them before I see them — the small, habitual motion of fingers finding their place along the beads, the drag of metal against skin as the chain settles into the hollow of a throat. They lift me without looking, as they always do, thumb pressing into the first pale bead, then the next, counting in a rhythm that belongs to me whether they know it or not. The links shift softly with each breath. The skull hangs steady until the hand reaches it, pauses, and presses harder, as if I might answer through bone. They do not come to me in temples. They come in narrow rooms, in the back corners of gatherings, in the quiet after voices have thinned out and only the weight of the evening remains. One of them — I have known her longest — tilts her head slightly as she moves through the chain, lips moving without sound. She tastes the words rather than speaks them, as though afraid they might scatter if given air. When she reaches my beak, she holds it between finger and thumb, not gently, not reverently, just firmly, like something that must be steadied while it is used. I watch from within the metal they carry. I feel the oil from their skin gather in the grooves of my skull, the faint warmth that lingers long after their hand has dropped away. They return to me often, more often than they admit, fingers seeking the beads when no one is looking, when the room grows too tight or the world presses too close. They do not know if I hear them. Still, they count. Still, they return.
