Soft night folds its silk upon the hills.
Wind murmurs of stories long left behind — of kings who lost crowns, of lovers who sought truth in fog.
I drift through this hush, my boots sinking in silver moss. The forest hums with quiet life — no bird, no cry, only the rhythm of hidden things. My torch long died, yet the moon gifts enough glow to show the worn line. It feels old, older beyond memory. Older still — beyond sin.
Once, I think I knew this route. Once, it led to song, to light, to someone who knew my soul. Now, it only circles — looping through fog, through time.
The rustle. Not wind. Not foe.
“Who’s there?” I whisper, but no sound returns.
Only echo. Only my own soft sigh.
I hold my ribs, feeling the slow pulse of life within. It’s lonely, this journey. Lonely, but not empty. For in every hush, something listens. Something remembers.
I move on, boots brushing dew. The moon slips through the trees, throwing thin ribbons of silver over my eyes. I step through them, through the shimmer of memory, through the ghost of who I might’ve been.
Once, I wore honor like steel. Once, my soul knew fire.
Now, it only knows echo.
“Why do you drift?” the wind hums — though I know it is only in my mind.
“To find my truth,” I murmur. “To find the song I lost.”
The hills listen. The moss holds my steps in its cool grip. The moon tilts, curious, wordless.
No city hum. No cry of iron. Only this: the hush of life, slow, vivid, infinite.
I stop by the brook. Its skin mirrors me — not fully, not kindly. My reflection flickers, broken by every ripple. It is me, yet not. It is who I could be, if I only remembered.
In the hush, I see myself — not flesh, not sorrow, but echo.
Echo of something I once knew.
Echo of someone I might still be.
The brook murmurs low. Its rhythm is comfort, its motion truth. “Keep moving,” it seems to hum. “Keep moving or you’ll dissolve.”
I nod, wordless. The moon grins.
Still, I move.
For motion is hope, even when the world feels still.
I whisper to the wind,
“Hold me until morning.”
It doesn’t reply. It never does.
Yet its touch — soft, cool, infinite — tells me I’m not lost.
Not yet.
ns216.73.216.176da2
and then Add to home screen.