The year was lost in fragments, as were the moments that held time captive. Reckonings at dawn, knowings by dusk, and shadowing whispers weaving between the hours.
In the beginning, there was silence—a waiting lull. And from the quietude, soft voices began to rise, forming patterns of light in the peripheries of thought. Like forgotten dreams that awaken to find themselves unanchored.
The ink flowed from a pen lodged in the depths of one’s solitude, each word tracing the outline of forgotten tales, repressed thoughts that hold echoes of other lives. What was hidden beneath the clarity of day now thrives in the embrace of night.
Awake, they whisper, beneath the stars, where light bends its will against the cosmic whispering. In the silvery glow, find what was lost—find yourself unrecognizable, yet familiar, in the recesses of twilight.