There’s a murmur underfoot—
a soft echo of something turning back,
where the air feels lighter,
as if freed from an unseen weight.
The days shift,
and the city stirs,
caught in its usual rhythm,
but something lingers—
a sense of pause, of waiting.

A wind rises,
not just to stir the leaves,
but to erase what was,
a golden herald to something colder,
something that clears the way
without revealing its purpose.

To begin again,
one must first unmake—
release what clings too tightly,
strip down to the simplest form,
until what’s left is just enough,
bare and ready for what comes next,
a quiet return to the start,
where the loop begins anew,
and what was lost
is found in the silence between.