silver morning

In the hush of a silver morning, the world is wrapped in a shroud of mist. Two figures drift apart on a leaf-strewn path—one fading into the pale embrace of fog, the other pausing, hand raised in silent farewell. Shadows of trees stand like silent sentinels, their outlines softened by the veil of dew. The air is thick with memory and distance, every step swallowed by the quiet, every breath a ghost in the cold. Here, time slows, and the heart lingers between presence and absence, between the warmth of a wave and the chill of letting go.