The Threshold

Your eyes close like doors closing on a hall where the last light leans gold against the floorboards— that softening, that slow unlocking of the day's vigilance.

In the dark, something stirs. Not quite memory, not quite the future's whisper. A shape without edges, a song you almost remember from a language your throat has forgotten.

The body dissolves like salt in water, becomes permeable. Time bends sideways. You are here and not here, suspended in the hinge between two worlds.

Then: the pull. A gravity of morning, of thought reassembling, of edges finding their way back into things— the weight of being seen, of being known.