The First Threshold
We began in the quiet of an autumn morning, before the day demanded our attention. This is a testament of love preserved through the passing of years.
Memory does not arrive all at once. It comes in fragments—the texture of a worn woolen sleeve, the specific slant of afternoon light across an empty writing desk, the lingering scent of cedar.
For years, we kept these moments locked away, fearing that speaking them aloud would dissolve their fragile truth. But silence has its own weight, heavier than any spoken confession.
We sat by the window as the rain began, watching the drops trace slow, erratic paths down the cold glass. In those quiet hours, we found the courage to write.
Every word felt like a reclamation, a slow gathering of what had been scattered by grief. We did not seek answers; we only sought to remember the love.
The ink dried slowly on the page, leaving dark, permanent tracks of a time we could not return to, yet could never fully leave behind.
Love is what remains.
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Here, in the quiet spaces between what was and what will be, we found a strange kind of peace. The first step was simply letting the words exist.