A Letter Written in Sleep
In the quiet hush between waking and dreaming, you find letters that never were sent, addressed to a stranger who may yet become your only true witness.
Each dawn brings not coffee or news but a folded page written in ink that smells of rain and forgotten promises, addressed to someone whose face remains hidden behind the city's gray veil. The prose drifts through corridors of memory where loneliness feels like a coat you must wear until it fits, weaving together images of moonlight on wet pavement and the soft rustle of paper against your palm. As the days blur into one another without clear events, only the steady rhythm of writing in sleep and reading in wakefulness remains, holding your breath for a meeting that might never happen yet feels inevitable.
