Return Path

There comes a time in the soul’s long wandering when the path curves, not forward, but inward. This is the moment of Return. Not a retreat, but a quiet revolution. In the hush of twilight, the path glows with the first warmth of renewal. Snow melts into clear rivulets. Buds awaken on old branches. A fox watches from the underbrush, steady and knowing. Overhead, a raven circles, guiding what has finally come home. The figure made of soft starlight walks without hurry, carrying the memory of every shadow and every dawn. This is not where they began, nor where they end, but the place between, where the path bends back into the heart. Here, the forest cradles both mystery and memory. What was lost is returning, and what is returning has already become something new. I left with silence in my chest, a shadow stitched beneath my skin, But somewhere deep, the roots still sang, and called my broken pieces in. The world turned once, and once again, until I found myself anew, A path I thought I’d lost to night, now bathed in gold, and leading through.

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