In the hush between moonrise and dawn,
I heard it — soft, like breath on glass,
a rustle not of leaves,
but of memory walking barefoot through my soul.
It was my shadow,
not trailing, but leading —
its steps like echoes from another realm,
its voice woven from winds and lullabies.
She spoke in silver syllables,
each one a forgotten name I once whispered in dreams.
She danced where my fears used to sleep,
spinning sorrow into stardust.
I followed —
through starlit silence, through midnight fog,
through the hush of things that were never said.
And in that space beyond light,
where truth wears no mask,
I found the music of myself —
in the soft, strange sound
of my shadow.