His eyes were as soft as clouds, yet filled with a hardness one cannot put a finger on.
Though the eyes, orbs of themselves, lingered in a gaze of yearning, they comforted the pounding heartbeat. The voice, brimmed with wit soothes The Anxious with clement care.

He was not caught up, not tangled in the briars of fear, he stood firm, as the shade loomed above his shoulders. The tender voices hushed at his presence, falling into the quiet of the dark.

The Gate was swung ajar, beckoning with an outstretched hand, fingers curling, saying: “come this way.” He took a transfixed step forward, but his confusion swept him away.

Dare he attempt to find the opened Gate?
Or shall he await for it to find him once more?