“Once a path is crossed, there is no going back the same.”

The weeks have built like storm layers. First, the whispers, faint but insistent, pressing through the silence until the air itself trembled. Then came the shadows, lengthening across the floor, teaching that stillness is rarely still. Behind each step, a veil, a mask, another curtain drawn back to reveal yet another. Nothing is ever only what it seems.

Smoke drifted next, curling in places where no flame could be seen, carrying its warning and its lure. A door followed, breathing in the stillness, daring someone to open it or wait for it to open itself. And when ears leaned closer, even the walls betrayed their silence, exhaling a hollow breath that carried more memory than any voice could hold.

Now, here at the cliff’s edge, the journey gathers itself. Every whisper, every shiver, every veil, every trace of smoke, every hollow breath presses forward until the ground no longer feels certain. This is where endings and beginnings blur into one.

And the question rises: is the force that follows a who, lurking behind the veil? A where, waiting beyond the smoke? A when, buried in the silence, biding its time until the door swings wide? Or is it only the raw truth of an emotion, held too long, now demanding to be felt?

The cliff gives no answer. It only waits, patient and unmoving, daring the next step.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-
When the ground falls away, is it the body that falls, or the emotions that held on too tight to the silence that was never still? Is it the silence that shatters, or the heart that finally speaks? The answers continue to linger just beyond reach. Week Four is next to arrive.

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