One morning, as the nascent light caressed the world with that particular slowness that belongs to preserved places, to suspended moments, to dawns that do not wish to startle those who pass through them, we saw it — or rather, we began to see it.
It was not a sudden revelation, not a brutal emergence in our field of vision, not a moment cut clean between ignorance and certainty.
It wasn't a turn.
It wasn't a shock.
It didn't impose itself.
It revealed itself.
Slowly.
Not like a silhouette rising in the distance, but like a memory resurfacing, like a forgotten truth that the world, with an almost anxious tenderness, had decided to return to us, little by little, step by step, breath after breath.
It was first a different clarity in the air, a density in the light, a change in the way the wind slid over our skin — as if space itself was adjusting to a still invisible presence.
