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Before the light stretches across the world,

before the songs begin again—

they gather.

Not quite dreams, not quite shadows,

these birds of silence trace the sky in memory.

Etched from soft ash and stilled wind,

they perch within the arc of night—

a threshold between what was and what might return.

Some lift,

some linger,

some look back.

And in the hush before morning breaks,

you can almost hear the rustle of wings—

a quiet reunion

of all the things we’ve lost

and still hope to find.