After the storm, silence.
No thunder, no accusation,
only the soft turning of a page no one had yet written. Somewhere in the afternoon of the world,
a single woman walks ahead of him down a corridor of light.
She does not look back.
She does not need to.
The invitation was never spoken by her lips;
it was pronounced by the whole unseen senate of the soul,
ratified by every shadow that once screamed,
sealed like gospel in the air itself. All that remains is the waiting,
the exquisite hush before the door opens,
the heart practising its one line:
“I am here.” Between the two dreams the same man walks,
once crucified and risen in the same breath,
now summoned,
not as accused, not as victim, not even as lover,
but simply as the one who finally learned to stand still
until the feminine mystery decided
it was safe to turn around and speak.