It was on that grey Tuesday, the kind that makes the world feel muted, that I first heard her voice carry across the fields. Soft as summer rain, it lingered just beyond the crops, where the horizon kissed the sky. I followed that sound, breathless but steady, hoping it could lead me from the shadows that had grown long and cold.
In the wood-smoked room of the old farmhouse, dust danced in the afternoon light. He was there, sketching out parts unknown on the back of an old invoice. His pencil moved like it had a mind of its own. Sometimes, I think he was grappling with secrets I'd long since set aside. But the way he drew... it was like he was inviting a road map to emerge from the chaos.
That autumn, whispers grew louder among the trees. A gathering of voices caught in the rustling leaves, each one tugging at the corners of memory. I paused often, allowing those sterile sounds to wash over me like a refreshing standstill in an otherwise hurried world. In the penitential hush that followed, the world felt like both beginning and end.