There's something that no eyes can see;
beyond the reach of memory —
yet known the way a room knows light,
a candle burning through the night.

Not watched, not tended — simply bright.

Holding the silence like a fading dream;
the thread that runs through every seam,
spun from a web of silver and gold,
older than anything we've been told.

Like a lantern carried to lead the way
through every night that swallowed the day.
Still, it burns — and by its glow
we find each other, and we know.

Some things only reveal themselves
in the quiet between heartbeats, between shelves —
like books that carry what matters most,
not words, but the warmth of every ghost.

And when the night turns dark again
the light remembers where it's been.
We follow that thread between the pages,
carried forward through all the ages.