Anthesis of Sadness

I signed my name at the bottom of the last page.

A slow, precise, almost ceremonial gesture.

A habit I had picked up from Anthony.

He wrote at night, his gaze lost in the shadows, his thoughts weaving worlds that only he truly understood.

I did it in the morning.

When the mind is still pure, washed clean of the previous day’s fears, suspended between dream and reality.

It was a moment for myself, intimate, fragile, like a breath before the storm.

With every word laid on the paper, I felt myself take root.

I felt that I was leaving a mark.

That ritual calmed me.

It had something sacred, fragile, profoundly real.