It was not a moment loud enough for the world to hear.
A small sound—keys falling—like a bell rung in the quiet chambers of becoming.
They struck the ground like tiny stars,
and I bent, as if answering a riddle
spoken in the secret language of synchronicity.

To lift what was dropped
—to hold the key—
is no small thing.

There, in the space between return and reception,
fingertips brushed.
Not long. Not deliberate.
A touch softer than breath,
but the whole sky opened in that hush.

It was the chapel again—
Michelangelo’s suspended gesture—
where God’s finger meets man’s,
not in thunder,
but in the trembling stillness
before everything begins.

That spark…
It traveled through me like a river remembering its source.
Not from the other,
but from the flame he unknowingly mirrored.

He did not feel it—perhaps.
But I did.

A quiet ignition.
An unseen altar.
Creation stirred inside me,
not as romance,
but as return.

And perhaps—
those fallen keys
were never his to lose,
but mine to find.

To lift.
To feel.
To remember
how light touches light
and becomes fire.

A touch.
A spark.
A genesis. See less