The year folds itself gently,

pages turned, ink still drying,

as we sit in quiet rooms,

measuring words not by their weight,

but by the worlds they might ignite.

What does the reader find?

A doorway half-open,

or the faint hum of something becoming?

We release sentences like seeds—

scattered on unseen soil,

hoping they root in fertile minds.

Next year, we sharpen our craft.

We’ll chase faint whispers,

turn weak signals into visions,

build landscapes where silence once lingered,

and leave them reading. Always imagining.