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.
