The air hangs thick, a film over the window of the soul. I look out now, and the world seems washed, a faded photograph where vibrant hues once shouted. I catch myself saying it, a low, almost inaudible murmur: I don't see hue. Not the bright magenta of excitement, not the deep indigo of understanding. Just a flat, persistent gray. And the fear arrives, a cold hand gripping the ribs— discolored is the landscape now, or perhaps it is I who am blind. Hegfaa, this word I invent for the blurring, the failure to perceive the essential, untarnished core in the clumsy motions of today. I search the mirror for the spark that used to leap, but find only the topography of years, a map etched with roads taken and left untraveled. The true color of that potential self seems hidden, locked away behind a door I no longer possess the key for. Regret pools in the quiet hours, a stagnant pond reflecting a sky that seems perpetually overcast. Existential dread whispers its old lullaby: It is done. The symphony is largely played. The last movement approaches, and what was the theme? What was the grand statement? The feeling settles heavy, that life, the vast, sprawling thing, has already hurried past the station, leaving me waving from the platform, my ticket unused for the most beautiful journey. But then, a small sound breaks the stillness. The chirp of a sparrow on the sill, a perfect, unburdened note. And a different thought surfaces, not a shout, but a gentle insistence. If the main act is concluded, there are still encores to savor. Others, I hear, have found their foothold in the smaller spaces now. They build, not empires, but moments. Small, daily, meaningful grand achievements: A perfect cup of tea brewed slowly, the precise folding of linen, a stubborn weed pulled from the crack in the pavement, a kindness offered without expectation of return. Each one a tiny, polished stone, added to a growing cairn of present worth. The dusty cello in the corner, silent for two decades, begins to hum again under tentative fingers. Reconnecting with passions, those vibrant ghosts of youth, not to conquer halls, but simply to feel the wood vibrate against the chest, to let the melody exist, messy and free. The present moment, this unglamorous now, it insists on its own validity. Not the grand summation, not the final, dramatic flourish, but the texture of this breath. The warmth of the sun, even diluted by the windowpane. Stop scanning the horizon for the last bit, the final scene. The film is still rolling, though the projector bulb might be dimmer. And in this focused light, this immediate, quiet space, the true color is not lost. It is simply reframed. A quiet, resilient shimmer, found not in what has been missed, but in what remains, ready to be truly seen. The clock ticks sideways now, a slow bleed of minutes Before life new Morning Are you ok Scared me.

She said open the door along with those two