There exist doors closed so carefully that their ability to open is forgotten. Behind them, the words fermented in the darkness, sentences aged underground, letters pressed upon letters, refusing to fade.
One buried beneath another.
Some stories begin long before the ink touches the paper. They arrive after everything else has left, such as meaning that only reveals itself when questions fall silent. They bring back the weight of what shaped human experience: the unsaid that resists being named.
On an east-facing windowsill, we found a yellowed parchment, covered with scars, bound with a burgundy-red ribbon. We looked inside. However many times rewritten, the old ink kept shining through. The story has begun anew.
For a moment, it felt as though walking backwards through broken timelines, addressing the act of carrying inherited textures no one asked to carry. Observing, from a distance, a life once lived, and discovering meanings reflected in the eyes of people once loved: those who became strangers.
And now strangers start to make sense.
Another verse unfolds from Wounded Shadows™
— Team Laukoni
[July 2024]