Before there was shape, there was a tremor in the stillness — a quiet hesitation in the air, as if the world inhaled. The fog hung heavy, pale as unspoken memory, and from its folds something wavered. Not quite body, not yet spirit. A shadow waiting to decide which it would become.

It felt the pull of the light — soft, unsure, like fingers brushing through sleep. A motion without direction, a yearning without name. The ground beneath did not know it was ground; the sky had not learned its height. Yet between them, the silhouette began to sway, thin and fragile as a thought breaking free from silence.

Every drift of wind became a pulse. Every shimmer of mist became a heartbeat. The air learned rhythm, and in that rhythm, form began to bloom.

“I was only wind then, dreaming of form. The dawn whispered, begin.”