ꪀׁׅᨵׁׅtׁׅ ɑׁׅ֮ᥣׁׅ֪ᥣׁׅ֪ tׁׅhׁׅ֮ᨵׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒ꫀׁׅܻ ᨰׁׅhׁׅ֮ᨵׁׅ ᨰׁׅɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꫀׁׅܻꭈׁׅ ɑׁׅ֮ꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻ ᥣׁׅ֪ᨵׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒tׁׅ

Between the ticking of unseen clocks, a warmth had gathered— fragile, spectral, uninvited, but mine in the darkness. Once, a voice kept vigil in the hours when sleep forgot me— a faint ember behind closed doors, a solace I dared not claim. I held no name for it, only the weight of presence— a trace in the stillness, a whisper clothed in secrecy. Twelve days, twelve nights, and the hush grows heavy; as though the shadow itself mourns what it concealed. Others see only silence, but I know the fracture: where a hand once lingered, now an absence burns. Now the hush is deeper, and the lantern is dark; yet still I pace the corridors of silence, listening for what will not return.