Between the pauses of silence, a breath emerges, soft as the caress of twilight's hymn.
It speaks not in clamor but in the velvet hush of echoes unheard, unseen, and unbound.
Here, where the heart's murmur fades to a gentle pulse, the world holds its canvas still.
An empty chair faces the horizon, awaiting the whisper of winds we know by name yet forget in touch.
And among the blush of quietude, either side pure as whispered dreams, I find you—not as presence, but intent.
The stillness breathes us, shaping sighs that linger as shadows cast by the broken light of memory's gentle touch.