The echo of a star long dead,
A thought that lingers in the head.
It hums without a single note,
The quiet wisdom time has wrote.

Whisper soft through open pane,
a breath of cool, a quiet sigh.
It stirs the curtains, makes them sway,
and brushes worries from the eye.
A fleeting touch, a sweet release,
a moment's calm, a gentle peace.

Are nature's ubiquitous patterns merely an aesthetic blueprint, or the fundamental language by which the universe remembers itself?

Even the smallest light can chase away the longest shadow, and today, you are that light.

The green glass, scoured by saltwater, finally beached. A child, tracing patterns in the sand, unearthed it. Inside, a rolled parchment, brittle and faded. Her small fingers carefully extracted it.

The ink, almost gone, spoke of a solitary voyage, a distant shore, and a wish whispered into the wind. "May this find gentle hands." No name, no date. Just that enduring hope, sealed by time and ocean, now unfurled beneath a new sun.

The child clutched the paper, feeling the weight of the unknown, the vastness of the sea, and a connection to a silent, unseen friend.