Through a doorway of worn wood,
the morning steps in before the man does.
Light spills gently-
not loud, not demanding-
but like a blessing that knows its place.
He stands there,
wrapped in white and silence,
his shadow stretching behind him
like a story still unfolding.
The courtyard breathes in fragments-
a brass lamp flickers in thought,
a distant figure dissolves into memory,
and the walls hold the warmth of yesterday.
Nothing moves fast here.
Even time walks barefoot.
The sun rests on his shoulder,
soft as a hand that remembers him.
And for a moment,
he is neither arriving nor leaving-
only existing
in the quiet threshold between worlds.
Inside and outside blur.
Light and shadow become one.
And in that still frame of being,
life does not ask questions-
it simply enters,
as gently as light through an open door.
