No one remembered when they first set out.
Perhaps it was at dawn — or in that fragile space between dreaming and waking, when the air still trembles with the residue of sleep and reality hasn’t yet decided what it wants to be.
They always walked from left to right, as if direction itself were encoded within them — in those filamented heads where branching tendrils spread like trees, or like neurons caught mid-thought.
They wore suits so perfectly tailored they seemed to grow from their bodies. Each carried a rectangular briefcase, smooth and sealed, and no one had ever dared to ask what lay inside. They did not speak, yet their steps fell into a common rhythm, as if some invisible metronome above them pulsed in the same strange tempo as the air around them.
The ground beneath their feet was not earth but waves — slow, rising crests that moved in a breathing pattern, swelling and subsiding, making each stride part of a greater music. Sometimes they ascended, sometimes they sank, as though inhaling and exhaling with the rhythm of the world itself.
Above them shimmered thin, luminous lines — like the traces of thoughts, like EEG drawn across the sky. They dimmed and flared with the cadence of the travelers’ motion, synchronizing with their quiet determination, their absence of gaze.
They had no names, though when they passed, one could smell the faint scent of ozone and feel a memory — maybe of childhood, maybe of something that never happened. It was said they were waves that had learned to walk.
Others whispered they were thoughts that had lost their thinker.
But one thing was certain: they were going somewhere.
Toward that place where waves meet silence,
and rhythm — finds its beginning. Created with Suno AI

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