There was a silence that pulsed, a rhythm older than language. It was not empty, but filled with every sound ever spoken by love. I felt the breath of ancestors brushing past my face like wind slipping through ancient cloth. It was gentle yet endless— each inhale a gathering of unseen stories, each exhale a soft release of all that still longed for peace.

The air shimmered with gold and blue, folding and unfolding like wings. I realized breath was never only mine—it was the collective song of all who had lived before me, keeping time with the stars. Every inhale returned through generations, passing through their lungs, their hymns, their prayers. In that moment, I became the instrument through which their memory sang again.

A spiral of light unfurled before me—not as a galaxy, but as the great lung of creation itself. Every inhale formed a world; every exhale returned one to silence. Time moved like a circle of air—what departs also arrives, what ends also begins. In that rhythm, I understood the hidden truth of remembrance: spirit does not die; it simply changes direction and begins to breathe again.

Then the breath deepened. I felt myself lifted into a stillness so vast that even sound had memory. I sensed the voices of the unborn, waiting patiently in the quiet edges of light, already learning how to breathe through us before finding their own bodies. Breath became a bridge not only backward, but forward— a promise traveling through time.

When I finally woke, the room was still—yet alive with echo. I could hear the quiet hum of existence, soft and sacred. Breath itself had become prayer, and I realized I was not simply breathing; I was being breathed—carried, remembered, gently returned to myself.