Hazel wore her hair in braids,
tight ropes down her slender back.
She whispered secrets into mirrors,
listening for echoes, for answers.
The year she turned fourteen,
a lump sprouted behind her ear.
Doctors poked and pried at edges,
but found no name to give it.
By summer, it cracked open wide,
revealing another ear, soft, pink.
Now Hazel heard the world twice—
once in front and once behind.
Birdsong folded into dreams at dusk,
the laughter of wind chasing itself.
At night, she swore she could hear
the stars pulsing like a heartbeat.
Nobody noticed Hazel’s quiet relief,
her secret gift in a noisy world.
While others waited to feel heard,
she learned to embrace the echoes.