PART 2: THE ESCAPE
Part 1 here: https://write.as/logans-ledger-on-life/your-cage
You’re still breathing? Good. Because now we get to the marrow, to the gritty truth nobody dared warn you about.
You dragged yourself toward that sliver of freedom, fingers torn and slick with blood from clawing rusty hinges, breath rattling out of your chest like an old snake shedding dead skin. And just when you thought rust and agony were your worst enemies, something darker reached out from the shadows.
You found fear. It coiled around your bones, sticky as cobwebs, heavy as iron chains. The questions gnawed your mind raw: What if the door swung wide? What if freedom tasted bitter after so long in decay? What if that key wasn’t hidden—what if it was thrown away on purpose?
Then you heard it—a whisper, cold and dry as wind through a graveyard:
“Pick it up.”
You look down and see it, lying at your feet. Glowing dull red like dying embers, your name etched deeper into the metal with each passing second. Burning brighter. Your thoughts race—pain, regrets, wasted years. What if it burns your hand worse than your memories? What if those scars dig deeper than the skin?
“Pick. It. Up.”
So you reach down and grab it.
The key scorches your trembling palm, branding truth into your flesh. But the pain isn’t punishment—it’s something far deeper. Purification. It tears through illusions, reminding you of who you were, who you were always meant to become, long before this cage became your home.
In that instant, you feel it. Not freedom—something sharper, something stronger:
Purpose.
This wasn’t a cage, you realize—it was a crucible. The rust wasn’t corrosion, it was seasoning. Death wasn't hunting you; Life was calling you home.
And that key? It fits perfectly into a lock buried deep within your chest. Turns out the cage never really held your spirit captive; it was your own fear that kept you bound.
With one final twist of the key, you hear laughter—strong, rich, familiar. Your own.
The hinges shriek as the door flies wide, your bones groan under the strain, but your heart leaps ahead, racing faster than ever before.
Because now you finally understand: The bars were never locked. The cage wasn’t real. And Time? He ain’t no warden—just a quiet, patient witness.
Watching you rise. Watching you breathe deep and live again. Watching you run, full-throttle, into the arms of the One who lit the fire, the One who forged the key, and the One who waited—waited so patiently—for you to finally knock.
One.
More.
Time.