“Time is but a face on the water.”

I first read those words in a book long ago, but I wish today was the first time.
There’s something haunting about understanding time—how it slips through our fingers like rain, how it reflects who we were, who we are, and who we might have been.

On the battlefield of memory, where echoes of war linger longer than the warriors themselves, I stand—hands stained, fate sealed, laughter carried by the wind. The world is a cruel joke, a story written in blood and steel, a song sung by those left behind. And yet, through it all, I dream.

Because some things are worth dreaming for.