The Blue Hour

Before the sun breaks the horizon, the world holds its breath— everything is shadow and suggestion, the houses still sleeping, the streets belonging to no one yet.

A bird calls from somewhere unseen, its voice the only certainty, and the grass gleams with what might be dew or starlight refusing to leave, caught between two kinds of darkness.

The air tastes like beginning, like something about to be remembered, like every goodbye that turns into hello when you're not looking.

And then—the first edge of fire, burning through the blue, and the spell breaks, the day claims its throne, and the blue hour slips away like water through open fingers.