Threshold

The room holds its breath before dawn, caught in the blue grammar of almost-light, where sleep still hums beneath your skin and waking waits at the window.

You float between two names, two selves, the one who dreamed and the one who will remember nothing but the feeling—salt-air, open doors.

Your hands don't recognize themselves yet. The walls breathe in colors that have no names, and the silence before birdsong rings louder than any song could.

In this small wedge of time, you are no one and everyone, the person you were and the person the day will ask you to become.