Goraizle

There is a word the wind forgets to carry: . It rests in the hollow of a chestnut shell, in the pause between a question and an answer, in the way an old door sighs before opening.

Goraizle is not a person, yet it has a face — the face of someone who still ties knots with hope instead of rope. It walks barefoot through conversations it was never invited to, gathering stray syllables like sea glass. At dusk, Goraizle sits on the sill of an unlit room, watching the horizon stitch itself shut. It does not mourn the day. It merely waits for the first star to remember its name. goraizle

— A small light in a large dusk