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ꪀׁׅᨵׁׅtׁׅ ɑׁׅ֮ᥣׁׅ֪ᥣׁׅ֪ tׁׅhׁׅ֮ᨵׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒ꫀׁׅܻ ᨰׁׅhׁׅ֮ᨵׁׅ ᨰׁׅɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꫀׁׅܻꭈׁׅ ɑׁׅ֮ꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻ ᥣׁׅ֪ᨵׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒tׁׅ

verucassault
The hours bleed into one another, and still the air remembers. Not absence, but a hush, thick as velvet — a silence that does not forget. Something shifted in the shadowed span of days, a thread I had thought unbroken slipped, unseen, through my grasp. What once flickered against the dark now lies dormant, yet I feel it still — faint, like the echo of wings against glass, or the aftertaste of a word never spoken. It was never mine to hold, yet I carry it as if branded.
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