The pages were patient…
white as untouched dawn,
holding their breath
for a voice brave enough to arrive.
Then the ink came
not gently,
but like rain that had waited too long,
spilling its secrets
from the marrow of memory.
Dust stirred.
Silence cracked open.
Old whispers rose from forgotten corners
and stitched themselves into sentences.
Each word burned softly at first
then brighter.
A quiet rebellion of letters
refusing to be erased.
Names once fading
found their pulse again.
Moments once buried
stood upright and breathing.
Time tried to close the book
but the story would not bow.
It stretched beyond margins,
climbed past endings,
and wrote itself into forever.
The pages were patient…
but truth was restless.
And now that it has spoken,
even if years gather like shadows,
even if hands tremble and seasons shift
This story will remain.
Not as ink.
But as imprint.
Not as sound.
But as echo.
Unfading.
Unforgotten.
Undone by nothing.
Ifedolapo Ogunniyi 