There is a house with no windows,
built of hours no one counted where the moon keeps its shoes by the door –
always ready, never resting.

Inside, a lantern burns without wick, kept alive by the hands of someone who forgot what their own name feels like when spoken aloud.

They move like wind in a locked room,
making space where none was offered,
balancing skies on their shoulders
like it’s just weather,
not weight.

Their footsteps don’t echo.
They’ve trained even the floorboards not to cry out.

Somewhere, outside the locked hush, another figure stands – also barefoot, also flickering – writing prayers in the form of poems into the dark with nothing but breath and hope
and the ache of recognition.

Not asking to be let in.
Just standing close enough
that the cold doesn’t win.

Because some people don’t knock.
They just stay.
In silence.
Like light does when no one’s watching.