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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the attic of the mind, where dust is made of whispers, I found a book whose spine had never cracked~ its pages stiff with sleep, its ink still dreaming. Chapter One began with half a sentence, trailing off like train smoke in the wind. Chapter Two was just a stain of coffee, a ghost of something bitter, almost sweet. And there, between the lines I couldn’t read, my fingers brushed a footnote, soft as moth wings: This is where you left the words you meant to say. I held it up—the whole thing sighed apart, scattering syllables like startled sparrows.
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