The chimes of the church bells had been ringing for some time. He barely paid attention to them.

It was definitely a Sunday.

Small groups of people drifted towards the church. Somewhere in the distance, dogs barked.

Knots in his stomach and the smell of fear kept him moving. It had not rained the previous night.

He sank into the deep hollows of the footprints in the sand, each one a deep, dry basin to him.

Waddling across on his tiny flippers, his shell rocking with every effort, he knew it wouldn't be long before the sharp eyes of the predators circling the clear morning sky caught sight of him.

The vast turquoise expanse of the ocean stretched quietly before him. The soft melody of the waves and the shimmer of the morning sun on the water stirred a promise of safety deep within him.

In that fleeting moment of peace, time itself seemed to slow. He lingered in its quiet embrace.

Trails of broken eggshells lay scattered across the white sand. He guessed the other hatchlings had already moved on.

A sharp slice through the air. He didn't need to look up. Instinct screamed that the bird was diving.

With all his might he pushed, each grain of sand slipping beneath him as he fought his way forward. The sweet scent of home filled every heartbeat. The waves no longer sang to him. They thundered, calling him home.

The rush of wings grew louder.

The deepening shadow made the distance to the water seem even longer.

The last stretch became the longest.

A curling wave lifted him from the sand, and with a single splash, the water closed over him.

The roar of the world above softened into a muffled hush.

Above, the dark sweep of wings passed over the surface, searching a world he had left behind.

She listened to the steady scratch of a pen beyond the light blue curtain. Faint light filtered through her fluttering eyelids.

She had slept through most of the morning. It would be many months before the cycle of days meant anything to her.

She was only a few hours old.

They were not so much stories told to her when she had been little more than an idea, but fragments of soulful whispers—the constant presence of a voice that had wrapped itself around her before she had drawn her first breath.

Within them lay the memories of a life well lived, one nearing its quiet end.

It was instant recognition of her own bloodline.

The newborn smiled and drew in the fragrance of wrinkled years.

It was a response to a presence she had known long before birth.

Loud claps of thunder, children huddled close beneath worn blankets, peals of hushed laughter, joyous and carefree.

Soft tremors of newlyweds, fingers entwined, shy glances lingering deep into the night.

Restless rush of days, the quiet pride of work honestly done.

Silver threads in dark hair, creases deepening with laughter and grief, footsteps slowing, heartbreaks gathered along the way.

More poignant than the joyous journey was living it once more as she wrote, while her eyes were still sharp.

Long after the voice had fallen silent, when she held babies of her own, the words from the well-worn pages would still echo within her.

Neon city lights flashed in his eyes from across the street, startling him for a moment. He must have closed his eyes for a bit.

Hanging from the high branches, he saw that the world was never truly upside down, for such directions did not exist. It did not mirror the perceptions of those who walked beneath it.

He knew well that beyond such notions, was a place where everything was just as it needed to be.

The faint flutter of a butterfly caught his attention.

It was an enigma, a quiet whisper of science wrapped in wonder.

He spread his wings in wide arcs cutting across the primeval skies while the tapestry of evolution unfolded in parallel.

He followed the delicate flight.

The burly bat and the fragile butterfly.

The horizon was fascinating, the brilliance of the new dawning sky, the myriad shades of orange and red reaching outward in radiant waves.

The city stirred in a slow sigh.

He belonged to an ancient lineage of night flyers that had inherited the darkness long before cities were mapped.

The silhouette of the flying bat and the pale pink of the butterfly, moving together, flashed briefly against the faint light like scattered embers before slipping into the shadows.

Walking through the corridors of the Spanner, I kept my eyes averted, not daring a glance at any face along the way.

The towering iconic arch framing the entrance, its upturned edges reaching skyward, stirred an emotion I struggled to name.

It felt like a threshold - a quiet spirit of stories, of pages waiting to be turned, of my own life unfolding one chapter at a time.

Its many layers, to which my soul felt strangely tethered, stirred a quiet disquiet within me. Yet somewhere deep within, I knew the scattered pieces would fit perfectly into the jigsaw, in time.

Across the wide expanse of ground, the library block loomed large, comforting.

My safe haven. A place to disappear among dust and books, wrapped in a cloak of invisibility. Within the hushed sanctuary of the library, I held my silences.

Beyond it stood the architecture block, seeming to hold something else entirely.

The bright red bricks were a stark contrast to the gleaming white walls within. It stood apart in quiet dignity, as though it carried a life separate from the other blocks on campus.

Each step echoed across the floor, a muted rhythm that seemed to match my heartbeat.

Familiar smells of clay and smudged charcoal lingered in the air, carrying the quiet weight of unfinished ideas. Days turned to nights, with no end in sight - life scarcely knew a moment of calm.

Conversations drifted in fragments from distant corners - laughter, hurried footsteps, whispered frustrations, shared exhaustion.

Yet none of it felt intrusive. It was oddly reassuring.

Perhaps life was much the same. Foundations laid long before one recognised the shape of what was yet to be made. Spaces formed slowly, quietly, before learning the purpose they were meant to hold.

The sky darkened, even more.

She was lonely, even more.

Though why, she never quite knew.

On a moonless night, a soft halo of blue slipped through the thin clouds, and she saw a cluster of stars. Some scattered, some trembling, some sharp, some faint.

Far down below, she saw the world breathing on in quiet, familiar ways.

Wind drifted through the trees, the rustling of leaves - distant voices like a forgotten song from childhood.

Suspended between two worlds - neither fully part of either.

Gently the stars wove their light across the sky, a fragile mosaic on velvet black.

A masquerade of light, barely held in the night.

She moved slowly, as though unsure. In the dark, her own light remained - not quite among the cluster.

An owl hooted, a lonely note. Through the window, nose pressed to the pane, a young girl looked up, smiling.

Her gaze lingered on the quiet light, as though it had been waiting for her.

And in that moment, the night held them together, the distance fading - and her light, no longer uncertain.

The blue light filtered into the room.

A soft wind stirred the thin, white curtains.

Shadows of the trees, cast through the window, played across the floor - dancing in chaotic rhythms, vibrant and alive.

Outside, the rustling of leaves softened into a quiet melody, soothing.

She lay in a beautiful sleep. A cherubic smile lit her face, eyes closed, lips parted slightly. Her chubby fingers brushed against his - just.

He was curled much lower than her, chin resting on his chest - a picture of peace and calm. One hand stretched upward, resting gently on hers.

Mirroring her smile, there was in him a glimpse of something eternal, held in the hush between them.

Two perfect halves of a single thought - the girl and the boy.

Joyfully prancing under the pale blue of the morning sky, echoes of their laughter drifted through every quiet corner of their dream. The garden wrapped in their playfulness, seemed to hold its breath, wanting to keep the moment. The wind moved around their small forms, watching, almost as if in reverence.

He held out his clenched fist.

Gently, she pried it open.

A small orange- gold butterfly lifted into the air, delicate.

They watched it rise.

The pool of blue light lay across their faces. From a corner of the room, it's orange- gold shadow lifted and wavered.

They stirred in unison.

For a fleeting second, her smile deepened. He followed more slowly.

Between them, something lingered - not quite a thought, but shared.

The floor boards creaked softly. He stood in silence in the doorway, bathed in moonlight. Gingerly stepping over the worn planks of the old wooden cabin, he saw the shimmer of the moon on the water.

The night wind caressed him gently. It carried the scent of damp wood and distant rain.

The quiver of the moon looked back at him in quiet, compassionate understanding.

He listened intently. Woven into the whispers of the wind, he heard the faint murmurs of her singing. It was light and unbroken.

He knew the song.

Barefoot, he waded into the dark water. He slipped silently and swam deeper, away from the edge of the shore. The waves closed in on him in tender folds.

The moon broke into fragments as it gathered from pieces here and there, trembling across the surface.

Through the rising mist, her form came into view- pale and shifting, soft and very near. The song did not grow louder. It was around him, within him - as though distance had no meaning. It settled within him, as though it had always belonged there.

The water held him, still and waiting. The slow understanding came to him and he turned back to the shore. The mist thinned. She had let him go, only to come to him another day.

He was one with the water, where breath becomes rhythm and the world fades into the quiet blue.

She always knew it was a Tuesday, though how - you couldn't say. She never cared for days anyway.

The breeze drifted in, carrying a different scent; her nose wrinkled in delight.

It was a perfect day. Not too bright, not too dismal.

The gulls circled overhead, shouting their nothingness to the wind, restless and hungry. Her ears twitched, disinterestedly.

She was waiting.

She stretched slowly, flexing her shoulders, she made a shift to move, though when - you couldn't say.

The turquoise blue walls of the small house overlooked the long line of jagged rocks. White frothy waves, in shallow strides, curled against the edges. A curtain of white shells fluttered at the opening of the small house. There was never a door.

The air was soft with expectation. She heard him much before she caught sight of him from the corner of her eye - the good one, anyway. Her thick, fluffy tail lifted.

She was the most orange ginger cat he had ever laid eyes on. It was probably a smile on her gruff face, though for certain - you couldn't say. The scars on her spoke of stories from the shores.

Walking towards the house, his net heavy, the catch of the day was good. He had saved the best for her, as always.

Salt-laden whiskers in bliss, she polished the offering slowly. He knew her taste. Her one glassy eye caught the golden amber light of the day. The chime of the shells on the doorway was the music that called her.

Watching the lengthening shadows, he sat close to her spot long after she had gone, silently. It was a Tuesday - she was a wordless wonder.

The wind around him settled into a calm, and something inside him loosened, as though someone had unknotted the day for him.

The paintings on his wall told a different story. Shades of grey, sombre hues, it was always her. He could see her laugh curled within the shadows of his canvas.

Fragile and quiet.

Her hair falling in delicate cascades, his fingers longed to caress.

Peeking out from behind the veil of clouds, the moon, playfully shone. Across the silver haze on his lawn, each tree bathed in white, he glimpsed her rooftop.

He let out a sigh, soft and heavy. His mind saw the quiet rhythm of her breathing as she slept. Comforting and steady.

Touching the bristles of his brush, the tenderness felt like the whispering skin. His hands trembled.

It was truly beautiful to believe this was love.

Their paths crossed each day. In the light of the day, he looked at the gentle arcs of pale luminance falling on the curve of her cheeks. The branches swayed gently, as if dancing with his unspoken yearning.

Her eyes lit up - he watched as she stepped into the morning light, with her family. Safe and warm. Her laughter drifted into the edges of a place she truly belonged.

Still holding on, the tender ache inside him tightened, a quiet pull like the lingering of a forgotten dream.

Shining speckles in the sand, the harsh glint of the sun in his eyes. Yet he would not look away.

The gently moving sea of sand was a mirage of shifting colours.

Shimmering slant of golden yellow hovering above was almost the exact colour of his hair.

He was after all, only a very young boy.

He did not know it yet - he had the gift.

He felt the pulse of the vastness around him - the silent song of the desert.

He was a boy born of the desert wind.

Lifting his arms, he let the wind caress him.

It was his mother's embrace. Soft and warm.

His small feet sank into the sand as he moved. He stood at the top of the crest.

Tiny swirls in the sand showed.

Picking up strange shaped stones half- buried, they seemed to seek his fingers.

Gently brushing, one by one each fit perfectly into the other. Otherwise seemingly rough and unpolished, surprisingly now reveal an untold beauty.

The figurines - eerie almost alive.

A faint tremor moved through the sand like a whispered secret.

He laughed into the wind and the echoes of her laugh craddled it.

He listened to the secrets of the desert, unfolding like petals waking to the light.

A slow unwinding, wrapping him in its quiet dream.

An understanding far beyond his years.

Shutters banging against their frames. The houses on the street quivering in the tempest. Screaming winds whipped the lamp posts into wild arcs.

She walked on without breaking her stride. The long ends of her coat flapped wildly like ragged sails under an angry sea.

She could see only a short distance ahead.

The sky was about to let her in on a secret - just.

Rumbling thunder seemed far too close above.

It was yet to be dark. It was yet to rain.

She heard his voice in her head. His wry half-smile, tired but sharp eyes looking straight at her. Almost amused.

" I'll be there....till I see you again. "

The promise of a presence. The staggering truth of his absence.

A single flash of lightning cracked open the heavens. In that fraction of illumination, she saw her weary face reflected in a shop window. Young as she was, though older she appeared.

She had caught the storm on the inside.

She heard his voice in the rumble. It was not always about the storm. Navigating against the strong winds, with a purpose unparalleled.

In the new silence, she saw beyond the shifting sky and the dark gathering, the sign that was as steady as the horizon after the rain.

Some connections survive every storm.

He rode with the wind. Music in his head. Hands on the bars of his midnight ride. He was inseparable from his motorcycle.

Streaks of light flashed by. The big lanes turned into small, narrow lanes. He was aware of the slight shift in the cityscape.

He was in a part of the old city. Flickering overhead lights, deserted lanes, cobblestone paths, faded red of the fascades, distant howls - set the tone from another era.

Timelessness wrapped inside the arching doorways.

The silent havelis smelled of history and sweet smoke.

He shifted his weight, the motorcycle responded to the subtle lean of his body as if they were breathing together.

The winds whispered softly...

They slowed down, expectantly.

The sky was magnificently lit. Bursting a million showers of fireworks, vibrant colours, different hues - they were caught in the reflected colours.

A vivid painting.

The air was sparkling with the sudden explosion of spectacle.

Looking over the city in its grandeur, he had his moment of reflection.

The quiet arrival of dawn, the gentle hum in his chest, held the promise of a beginning.

It was not what he said, more in the way he said it, that made my mind to pause.

A small white lie. Seemingly insignificant.

It refused to let go, nagging at my thoughts. It was one he had said quite often.

Of late, though, the words felt old and worn. A hesitation at the edges.

He was not like the other boys. Layers to be peeled away. It had taken a few patient years. He had gotten comfortable with his open words.

Then came the big move.

Maybe the distance made the move tangible.

Time and life made sure we were kept on our separate paths. The daily grind engulfed us.

"I'm fine," he said.

The silence that followed was heavy and obstinate.

Stronger waves had swept through us. But we had words then. The space he had so ached for was within him now.

I watched him move into a new rhythm with practised ease. Surprisingly smooth.

I thought I was the stronger. It closed inside me like a slow exhale.

He leaned toward a new leap, wings trembling yet certain. I felt an ember of pride - quiet and steady.

Between his subdued tone and the longer pauses, I gathered an ache.

It lingered - not his, but mine.

She smelled of cashews and cashmere. Not salt and silk.

The air was alive and breathing. Much more than what could be said of her.

Calmness descended. She lay in an open casket. Strands of brown hair framed her delicate cheeks. Tug of a smile. Not frozen - more of an unflinching understanding.

The wind too hushed, and caressed. Her fragrance drifted through the halls of the mausoleum. She was a silhouette of stark elegance.

Low chants echoed from the depths of the chambers and the air pulsed in response.

Smooth white and grey slate walls stretched lazily from the rough stone black of the floor. Light filtered from tiny openings over the curve of the mighty roof.

No loud cries, only the quiet of the ritual.

Shifting shadows, climbed over bent light ; somewhere in between, her spirit rose.

A whisper of grace carried upward. Leaving the faint warmth of her life - she was moving on...

I caught him looking at me. It was more, a skewed glance. Reflection in the water. He was half submerged in it.

The swift shrill from above the trees made me leap out of my skin. But he was calm, almost enviably so. He would have heard it every day.

The overcast sky painted a somber loom of darkness. A slight shift in the water - I felt him looking at the shadows of the clouds across the water. He loved the rains. I shivered, in anticipation.

The ripples on the surface around him, were like delicate brush strokes. His eyes were dark mirrors of the sky.

The long leaves hanging over the edge of the water reached towards him, as though to receive his leap. Eerily, the soft greens trembled in the gentle wind, the silence louder than any sound.

Sharply cutting through the air, he leapt - strong and sudden. In a blink, he was gone. The trees closed in, without spilling their secrets.

My gaze stayed in the air, momentarily framing the jump. The big, green frog was the king. Ancient echoes of his croaks floated below, whispering his stories.

It was the green of the moss that first caught my attention. A beautiful spread, an emerald carpet, all over the wall. Something to signal the start of a journey.

To take us where our imagination would.

You spread your arms around me. Holding me in a tight embrace; it was more than warmth. It was a promise.

A gentle lift, to spread my wings and fly with the wind.

I peered over the green wall. Slowly floating, a dandelion dance. It was a gentle push into a world flavoured with magic and transformation. The air had a smell, a quiet assurance that something new was dawning.

The shyness of our whispers, carried us beyond the branches, deep into the ancient woods. Listening to the silent hymn of moss and wind, a sigh rose between the hush of our heartbeats.

Together we walked back, unhurriedly, treading softly on the grass, with the cloud as a canvas and the breeze as a brushstroke.

Through the cloud of smoke, amidst the din of the crowded room, I strained to see your face. Hips gyrating to the beats of the music, the haze seemed alive, curling and weaving through the bodies.

I was enticed. It seemed to beckon me.

The music pulsed through me like a whispered rhythm, the vibrations beating on their own.

With half - closed eyes, you were like a silhouette swallowed by chaos - yet untouched. Your stillness deepened the intrigue, heightening the intensity of the moment.

I glided through the haze, stopping at the edge of your slender shadow. For a heartbeat, my mind stepped out of the twirl - and in that stillness, your shadow caught mine.

A subtle smile curved your lips. The playful sway of hair over your eyes. The space between us folded into a tightening embrace - and our shadows danced. The captivating music unfurled a dance floor only we could see.

We were sharing a lover. I had known it for a while - though in angst, or in deliberate denial, it was buried deep under.

Within the fragility of my emotions, I always saw her in the shadows. The hovering presence was never far away, yet so distant like a long forgotten dream.

The warmth of your embrace, the breath on my skin, kept the chill of the dark lingering at the doorstep. Through the sweat of the night, I saw the curve of her smile above your face.

In hindsight, I was imploring you to look into my eyes with less passion. Not to be less loved, but to be more forgiving, to myself.

She had long gone from you, yet my smile showed the quiet cracks in my soul.

At times, the fleeting hesitation did not quell the tug of desperation, that I could have done without knowing.

In a tranquil moment of realisation, I saw what you were trying to show me - our hearts beating in perfect rhythm.

The sudden splash as he hit the waves from a ridiculous height, caught me in shivers. Too petrified to look over the edge, I was cozy in the cove up above, with my read.

The interruption was uncalled for.

It was a perfectly beautiful day. I had come earlier than usual. The quietness of my spot had the added perk of being hidden from noisy tourists.

I was not aware of his presence before. Of course, the only interaction I had was with a random stray or the black birds. The smell of salty breeze on my face, helped me work.

He was climbing back up already. Perched across the cove, our eyes caught each other, in a playful arc.

The tingling down my spine, did nothing to help steady my gaze. I watched the drops slide down his arm as swiftly as on a slide in a playground.

He arched his eyebrow, tilted his head to the water below. I saw the invite to have the next jump with him. He was probably...no definitely, not aware that my tryst with water was only so much as a washed up whale on the shore.

Maybe we could be an act, for a moving circus as the bloated whale and the lithe fish !

I shook my head slightly, more to myself than to the unspoken words. His grin widened. He shrugged and, without hesitation leapt back into the air. For a long second, almost a magical pause in time, the air was shrouded with the confidence of someone who belonged to the sea.

The whisperings of the wind carried these words to me. It's all about letting go. For a single moment, you are completely free. Nothing to control, between you and the fall.

Shaking myself awake, I heard his voice, through the rhythm of the water, a pulse reverberating in my chest.

And just like that, I let go. From the edge of the dream, the weightless surrender to the endless possibilities enveloping me in this world of mine.

' You've already leapt.' His silence said.

The painted pink of her lips, was enough, to behold the untold beauty. Her veiled face could not conceal the beautiful long lashes of her eyes. They fluttered with the grace of a whisper.

It was always with a lowered face and a book held close to her chest that I had seen her a few times walking around the garden. It was interesting how she had piqued my attention.

The garden more than willingly, almost tenderly, gave her the space she had carved out for herself. She seemed to have absorbed the very essence of life in her surroundings. Each blade of grass, the tips of the tendrils, the clutch of the sweet smelling flowers - seemed to lean in for want of her touch.

I came to know who she was through her works. I then read each and every one.

The strength and poignance of her words belied the fragility of her frame.

She moved like an elusive dream, flitting around the edges, never centre-stage.

The slight tilt of her head towards the colourful kites flying above the trees was more guided by the chirpy laughter from below.

I saw her smile, in my mind.

I watched the changing red vibrant hues of the evening, long after she had walked by.

It reflected in me as well. The air once again embraced the quiet, but it was more full and content now.

The stark realisation that the quiet resilience in her stories, came from a delicate balance tucked away in her world of partial darkness.

I waited, just as the garden did every day, to listen to the unspoken symphony she carried with her every step.

It was pieces of broken glass that I was treading on. I was probably aware of it. Yet, not knowing to what extent.

He showed me the mirror. I could not comprehend, the face…it was vaguely familiar. I had come across this one, many times.

He showed me the mask…it had no dreams. Porcelain beauty.

I had worn it for a long time. Blurring the seams between reality and expectation. Dangling a long string of promises I had made to myself, to my face – I could scarcely look at it.

He was challenging me every step of the way. He asked if I wanted to keep the mask. His voice low, like a whisper from the edges of a dream.

Softly cradling me with his words, I gingerly moved on. The magician that he was, mesmerizingly, I saw long forgotten passages of my mind.

Kaleidoscopic reflections, I saw, the beautiful distortions looking back at me. Sieving my way, I started picking up each and every piece I knew.

A very subtle shift in the dynamics, bringing a world of difference. Surging through every fibre, an enormous wave of energy saw me on my canvas in psychedelic hues. Listening to the concert playing in my head, all consciousness became a collective entity, this unit of oneness ...where the magic began to happen.

The soft voice drifted back, like a breeze carrying the scent of rain. Do you still want the mask?