The poet was not unknown. In his hometown, they called him [Sightless].
Not because he lacked sight—
But because everything he saw was invisible to those without the skill.
To them, he wandered through an empty world.
To him, it overflowed with unseen meaning.
Those with [Divine Vision] walked in a reality layered beneath reality.
A world full of green, blue, orange, yellow, red—
A living, breathing realm invisible to the rest.
But not all who received the gift survived it.
Some vanished without warning.
Whispers spoke of hidden predators,
creatures that hunted only in the world the gifted could see.
Even those who returned from encounters were marked—
Shaken, wary, uncertain of what still watched them.
Sightless did not wield a blade.
His weapon was the word.
And in his youth, his one true flaw was belief—
The foolish belief that he would find her:
The one girl he could love for the rest of his life.
But as he dreamed of her,
she laughed somewhere else,
in the arms of another man.
He never spoke to her.
Never tried.
He only saw her—
and to him,
seeing her was more beautiful than living.
He aged, and with time,
retreated from people and noise.
He walked the long, silent roads,
recording what his [Divine Vision] revealed.
A world no one else could bear.
A world only he could carry.
But today, he was no longer alone.
Someone stood waiting at his doorstep.