Time wraps itself in a scarf of mist, it brushes those who watch without haste, and the day remains closed among gray threads. In the thick weave whispers secrets to forgotten things, that breathe at the rhythm of memories. A vapor of words reveals vanished promises, closed doors tremble with delayed memory, and the echo keeps what dares not be named. When the mist yields, listen to a fragile voice it is not tomorrow, but the breath returning present, and the present itself lets itself be told.