"The wind is wrong — it hums, it waits,
It whispers slow behind locked gates.
A breath returns that should not be,
A second wound bleeds quietly.
The sky forgets how stars once shone,
The ground grows cold — but not alone.
Something walks in shapes of light,
But leaves behind a trail of night.
They speak in tones both calm and clear,
But nothing lives that ought to hear.
The Watchers blink, then turn away—
Even they won't choose to stay.
He wakes again, but not the same.
No voice to call, no soul to name.
The boy once lost is now the key—
To what, we wait.
And dread to see."