“Every ending is already becoming something else.”

The week leaves its trace,
not sharp but lingering,
like ripples spreading long after the stone is gone.
Whispers that once hid themselves
rose to the surface,
shivering through the silence
until shadows stretched further than I thought they could reach.

Every veil that lifted only showed another.
Smoke curled in places where no fire should burn.
Even the door breathed,
as if the weight of secrets
was too much for its frame to hold alone.

None of it stood apart.
The whispers belonged to the shadows.
The smoke belonged to the veils.
The breath belonged to the door.
And together they drew us here,
to this place where return is no longer possible,
because something in us has already stepped forward.

What remains is not just story and poetry,
but echoes,
the echo of silence that refuses to stay quiet,
the echo of stillness that is never truly still,
the echo of truth pressing closer,
asking to be felt,
to be honored,
to be carried.

So we pause here,
not with answers,
but with wonder.
Perhaps what waits beyond the veil
isn’t a shadow or a smoke trail,
but the weight of emotion itself,
the kind that asks nothing but presence.

And maybe the question is not what will step forward first,
but how we will meet it when it does.

—Kerri-Elizabeth—

And as the cove settles into its quiet reflection, something stirs beneath the surface, soft but undeniable, as if the season itself has begun to breathe differently.