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There is a hollowing that comes, a slow and creeping quiet, like winter's first breath settling heavy over the earth. Where there was once warmth, now lingers a chill that sinks deep, too deep, as though the very spirit is slipping away like smoke through grasping fingers. The pulse softens, the light in the eyes fades to a dim glimmer, barely holding on, as though the body is surrendering to a call only it can hear, a call from a place beyond this waking world. And in that final stillness, it is as if the very air has grown thick with absence, the spaces around him holding only the fragile echo of what was, a ghostly hum left to fade in a world that moves on, indifferent, untouched. What remains is but a shadow, a whisper, a memory—an ember swallowed whole by the dark, lingering only in the hearts of those who remember. Kei'Mani ╱ Paloma(Untitled)
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