Whispering Shadows in Twilight

The light withdraws— not abruptly, but with the grace of someone tiptoeing from a room where memory sleeps on every windowsill. Sky smears gold across the edges of goodbye, and rooftops inhale the hush of coming dark. The world holds its breath while shadows begin to slip silently from the ankles of trees. They stretch and reach, curling like ink spilled in reverse, writing forgotten things in soft grey, and I watch— not with fear, but with the ache of remembering what I never quite knew. In the hush, the shadows begin to whisper. Not in words, but in movements— a tilt of a leaf, the sway of a branch, the slight retreat of warmth from the stones, the silence between wingbeats. They speak of things the sun never says aloud— of old stories kept in bark and moss, of the names of winds no longer called, and dreams that folded themselves into the creases of dusk. Somewhere, a child once stood on a porch, counting stars before sleep claimed her. Somewhere, a letter waits unopened, the ink slightly blurred from time, its promises softened by shadow. And in the violet distance, twilight walks barefoot across the fields of once-was. It hums. Not a lullaby, not quite a dirge, but something in between— the hymn of in-betweenness, the breath before the dream. And as the sky exhales its final gold, and night opens its dark and endless wings, I listen. I listen to the whispering shadows in twilight.