In the blur of light and shadow, something stirs. A rhythm without name, a voice without face. It slips between night and memory, leaving only echoes. Not to be followed—only felt. It moves in silence, then fractures into color, dissolving as quickly as it arrives. A current without source, a pulse without end. What lingers is not sound but sensation—an afterimage, a trace, a signal meant for those who know how to listen.