In the quiet dawn, where echoes of the night linger like old friends, Maris found herself at the edge of the lake. The water, a mirror of the sky's changing palette, whispered secrets only the wind understood. Here, she felt the pull of gravity not just beneath her feet, but a more ethereal balance that seemed to suspend time itself.
Invisible ink, invisible words. The pages upon which her life was written fluttered in the breeze. Each line, once clear and vibrant, now blurred into the soft canvas of morning mist. Maris pondered the stories woven into the fabric of her being—stories that spoke of loss, of hope, of the relentless search for equilibrium amidst the tumult.
A figure appeared, sketched faintly against the horizon. It was the silhouette of a traveler, perhaps a reflection of her own journey. They shared the same path, though the way ahead was obscured by shadows. As they drew closer, Maris could see the outline of a familiar face, a friend she had yet to meet again. The dynamics of their encounter would shape the equilibrium they sought, guiding them through uncharted waters of their shared past.
Whispers of the Deep