I. Echoes
This threshold was never mine to choose; three years ago, a chair beside me stood empty, its hollow stare naming every night without words. Grief became my compass, yet its needle spun in circles, pointing only inward to the ache I could not name.
II. Frontier
Loss unfolded as a boundless battleground, where each remembered smile redrew the frontier. Memory is not a shrine but a ritual of becoming. Sorrow arrived in a crooked wheelbarrow, unloading rain-stained promises at dawn’s first light.
III. Transmigration
Then came his voice, soft question echoing my footsteps, revealing that love is trust reborn in another’s breath. “Not betrayal,” he told me, “but history retold with a new flame kindled from dying ashes, fire remembering itself.”
IV. Altars
Hand in hand, we ventured into nettled paths, learning humility at every *****. Morning rituals became our altars: rising coffee steam, laughter like incense, and the map of our smiles drawn in pencil, lines faint but full of hope. And I remembered doors I’ve opened only to find mirrors.
V. Thresholds
I ask only for sturdy shoes and a witness to every step, forward or back. Under a sky that still asks what blue might mean, a sky vast enough to hold my yesterdays and our tomorrows. And someone who understands that love, like grief, arrives on tiptoe, an imprint pressed in damp clay, proof that even after loss, we find our way.