The Ink's Migration

The nib stutters on the vellum's edge, a bird hesitant to leave the branch before the storm breaks the horizon. Black pools wait for the gravity of thought.

Silence is a heavy, velvet curtain draped over the ribs of the shelving, where ghosts of lexicons breathe the dust of a thousand forgotten afternoons.

Then the flow begins, a slow bruising of the page, where ink finds its map, tracing the veins of a story that lived only in the pulse until now.

We leave our marks like salt on the shore, knowing the tide is coming, yet writing as if the parchment could hold the ocean in its grain.