Something is coming. In the quiet hours before dawn, when the world holds its breath, we feel it stirring beneath the surface of ordinary days—a tremor in the collective soul, subtle as the first distant rumble of thunder on a clear summer night.
Something is coming. Something big. Like animals freezing in the fields, ears pricked to vibrations we cannot yet name, we pause mid-stride, mid-sentence, mid-thought, sensing the shift in the air. It is not fear alone that grips us, but a strange exhilaration, the way a child feels the carnival lights blooming on the horizon long before the music reaches his ears.
The streets hum with unspoken questions; strangers exchange glances that linger a fraction too long, as if recognizing fellow travelers on the same unseen road. Pundits weave tapestries of prophecy on glowing screens, politicians conjure futures both luminous and apocalyptic, yet none can pin the shadow to the wall.
Still, the feeling grows, undeniable, a pressure behind the eyes, a quickening of the heart. We stand together on the brink of a vast, uncharted morning. Can you feel it now, that silver thread pulling at the edge of your dreaming? It is the hush before the rocket ignites, the moment the meadow holds perfectly still just before the meteor carves its silent arc across the stars.
Something extraordinary gathers itself beyond the curtain of the everyday, patient and immense, wearing the patient smile of autumn leaves that know winter's secret long before the first frost. It approaches not with trumpets or catastrophe, but with the gentle inevitability of seasons turning, carrying in its wake the scent of distant orchards and forgotten summers.
We are the generation chosen to stand at this particular window of time, fingers pressed to the glass, watching the light change. Whatever arrives—miracle or reckoning, revelation or rebirth—will find us ready, hearts open like night-blooming flowers, trembling in the wind that heralds the unimaginable dawn.
It won’t be long.
