Your words weave frost into whispers—dewdrops cradling dawn’s quiet breath. May the path’s stillness bless your weary days with silver-kissed stillness.

There is a place early in the morning—most often a side street, a lane that pretends it never really led anywhere, or a little path between hedges—where the air feels newly wrapped. Thin and glassy, it arrives like a thought you’re almost too gentle to finish. Dew clings to the ground as if trying to remember being rain; frost kisses the edges of the world with a silver hush, a finish line for a night that worked so hard.

Here, the path is a narrow concession we make to our hurry. A single file of steps, worn, uneven, the kind that ask you to slow without shame. It is the kind of slow that makes a noise like a heartbeat, like the space between the beats. We walk with our eyes down, saving our breath, letting the frost sign the day in white.