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The corridors were wet with silence, still shining from the night’s rain.  One step closer and the scent of crushed moss rose into the lungs like a prayer you don’t remember learning.  I stopped just before the threshold—where stone and root wrapped into one held breath.  I didn’t move again.

In that stillness, I saw it clearly: the doorway was not an entrance.  It was a lung between worlds, drawing in everything that dared to speak and exhaling only the quiet that remains.

 

predawn hush expands
between root and weathered stone—
the soul slips within


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