Change

So, the cloister. At last she was able to shrug off her body. The monk placed the flesh-suit on a hanger and slipped it into a pocket among some others, before the trolley was rolled away.

Clad only in soul she was given a catalogue to leaf through. A register of millions of faces paired with short descriptions of talents and quirks.

The choice was made quickly, on instinct. It fell on a seven-year-old boy from Sudan, rather short for his age, with ivory-white eyes and black pupils. He stood out from the rest because he had been granted a heavenly voice. A realm of pianissimo, according to the catalogue.

She woke as him. At once they ran a hand over the bristly hair, then tested the vocal cords. First with a rasp and a brief hail, then a song in the language they both commanded. The words loosened from the joints of language. Everything mere resonance and hum and trembling.

They laughed at the self-evidence of the new identity. This was good, better than expected, excellent even. They turned to the high priest and asked: May we keep each other? He rumbled with amusement and replied: Your lesson has begun. Off you go now.