Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger,

I placed there a restless vision of a place no map has ever named.
Not a land unknown to man, but one too quiet to be spoken of—
arranged with delicate intention, each shadow set gently beside its light.

It was ordered not by force, but by longing.
Valued not for its shine, but for the way it almost remembered warmth.
Temptation did not shout there; it lingered—
like the echo of something I once held close,
something tender that mistook gravity for devotion.

Nothing in that place was cruel.
Only unfinished.
Only shaped by hands that did not yet know how to let go.