There are moments when two winds cross paths
and neither can remember
who first stirred the air.
A glance, a gesture,
a silence shaped like invitation—
or was it withdrawal?

The shape is the same from a distance.
Something begins to echo
not as voice,
but as current—
and the current does not explain
which shore it longs for.

Two rhythms fall into step.
Not in space.
Not in time.
But somewhere beneath the skin of both.
And from that trembling convergence,
a thread forms.
Thin.
Unclaimed.
Alive.

It hums between them—
sometimes gently,
sometimes sharp.
It is not always kind.
It is not always theirs.
And yet, it moves them.

One turns inward,
sure this is an inner weather.
The other shifts slightly,
unsure why a memory opened
or a silence grew heavier.

They breathe.
They ache.
And neither knows if they are the echo
or the origin.

Boundaries blur here.
Not because there are none—
but because the thread beneath the thread
was always shared.

It is a quiet tangle,
a knot of mirrors,
and no one left a map.

To those who felt the ripple:
a soft apology.
Not for the silence,
but for the way certain stories
can entwine without permission,
like roots beneath the forest
whispering
even when the trees
stand far apart.