Where Stories Begin

Beneath the hush of ordinary days,

a spark waits—
a word trembling,
a thought daring to take shape.

I gather silence,
break it open with syllables,
and watch as meaning spills out
like light through cracked glass.

Every line is a seed,
every pause a breath.
Stories do not arrive whole—
they arrive in fragments,
like rain gathering into rivers,
like stars scattered into constellations.

And so I write.
Not to capture the world,
but to remind it
that even fleeting echoes matter.

Here, the whispers find their rhythm.
Here, the page learns how to breathe.

And at the end of every story—
you will always find
Will with the tell, words from a spell.