Threshold

The sky forgets itself in shades of amber, each cloud a brushstroke dissolving into ash. Trees hold their breath at the edge of shadow.

The light bends one last time through the trees, catches in the spider web like mercury, then lets go.

Somewhere a door closes quietly. Not in finality—in invitation. The darkness isn't empty; it's full of listening.

Stars arrange themselves like words we've never learned the language for, yet somehow understand.