The Unfinished Hour

There is an hour that arrives unannounced, when the day has surrendered its claims and the night has not yet found its rhythm. In that quiet seam between duties, the tools rest upon the table, the ink dries upon the unread page, and the soul sits down beside itself, asking nothing, promising nothing, simply listening to the wood settle in the walls. We spend our lives measuring the distance between who we are and who we meant to be, forgetting that the bridge is made of ordinary minutes like these.