The Geometry of a Quiet Breath

I have forgotten the spectrum of spring. To me, this world is rendered in stark contrast: white petals against an ink-black sky, my silhouette cutting through a sea of grey stone.
He does not speak; he only waits at the edge of light and shadow. He sees not just the fabric I wear, but the way it clings to my form when a sudden breeze whispers secrets from the river.
I turn back toward him—a singular motion that defines space and time. The world shrinks until there are only two shapes: his steady outline in the distance, and mine, poised between departure and return.
He reaches out, fingers grazing my wrist with an intensity that burns brighter than any color I can recall. In this monochrome stillness, a single touch becomes an earthquake of warmth. We do not need words or hues to understand each other; we are simply two shadows merging into one long line under the dying light.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost