They descend quietly, these echoes, wrapping around the lull of knowing, threadbare warmth. In the chamber's solitude, the remnants of thought dissolve, drawing every tentative word into the painlessly deep silence.
As weights lost to time found their balance, so too does the moment of suspended breath—and in this swell of immensity, it is profound clarity. Perhaps: the pull of anchors unseen, yet known all the same.
We anchor dreams to timing, like anchors stained with rust that drift beneath the oh-so-simple surface. Waking, we find meaning in things left unsaid, hanging vigil outside our door.
The Crossroad Awaits