The Threshold

At the lip of dawn, the world holds its breath, caught between shadow and surge. Light fingers the horizon, tentative, as if remembering how to touch stone.

The birds know before we do— their songs fracture the silence into something breakable, something that might dissolve if we listen too closely.

What we carry into the light casts no shadow here. We are only the reaching, only the moment before the world remembers its name.

And still the morning comes, patient as breath on cold glass, drawing us forward into the luminous, the ordinary, the life we've been sleeping toward.