Summoned
A breath unclaimed by spell or sign,
Just stillness cutting down the spine.
Not traced by light, or bound by name,
But something older, not quite tame.
A hush that pressed without a sound,
Then pulsed—a beat beneath the ground.
No wind. No mark. No blinding light.
But still, the air pulled something tight.
Breath grew thick and heartbeats stilled.
A tremor not from fear, but willed.
It moved, but didn’t seek or chase—
Just reached, and found, and folded space.
No path was carved. No signs were laid.
The hush was thick, but not afraid.
It pressed, not loud, but sharp and sure—
A quiet pull. A gentle lure.
You didn’t knock. Nor did you plead.
It merely called from rooted need.
The once-still hush becomes a gate—
A wordless call. A shift in fate.
So if the stillness touched your skin,
The Archive’s pull has drawn you in.
