Duet of the Unseen Dawn

They meet where morning still dreams in pastel, two women braided from the same forgotten melody that the sky hums when no one is listening. One carries the lyre of curled light, strings spun from the hair of yesterday’s sunsets, each note a small surrender to joy that trembles like dew before it lets go. The other breathes through ivory reeds, a flute carved from the hollow between heartbeats, turning every exhaled wish into silver spirals that rise and curl like incense made of laughter. Their eyes are closed not because the world is too bright, but because the real brightness lives inside the music they are remembering together. Flower crowns spill over their temples, roses that never learned to wilt, daisies drunk on sky, blossoms that decided thorns were only another way to hold hands with color. Around them the air shivers into musical notation, black eighth-notes blooming like sudden fireflies, dancing the ancient agreement: We were never supposed to be silent. They play the hour before the world decides what anything should mean. And in that tender ellipsis of time the universe leans closer, rests its chin upon its palm, and for once forgets to interrupt.