Some seasons end without warning. The ground shifts. A door closes softly behind. No farewell, no collapse. Just a silence where something used to be.

And then — the echo.

It isn’t always clear when beginning begins.

A drawer is emptied. A morning arrives softer than expected. The spine uncurls.

There is light again, but from a different direction.

Starting over is rarely clean. It carries the texture of what came before — the prick of regret, the gleam of stubborn hope. There are moments that don’t announce themselves as new, and yet, they tilt everything.

A pattern is interrupted. A ritual undone. A question lingers longer than it should.

And still, the body leans forward.

Not toward a plan, but toward a sensation. A glimmer. The pulse of something not-yet. What looks like chaos from a distance may simply be freedom under construction. There is, somewhere in the quiet, a pulse that did not give up. It waits.

Perhaps this isn’t return, but arrival.

Not rebirth — but redirection.

The old frameworks don’t fit. The names don’t matter. Time moves, and the self moves with it, shedding, noticing, wondering.

There is weight, yes. But also the first signs of weightlessness.

And there — just at the edge — a flicker:

the first instinct to build again.

Not for survival this time,

but for joy.