When dawn dared to breach the tomb of night, its frail light clawed through the gloom. My soul, embalmed in silent fright, stirred beneath despair’s perfume. Each step was met with spectral dread, the ground sighed like a mourning hymn. Yet somewhere deep within the dead, a pulse began — defiant, dim. The wind howled sermons of decay, but I spoke back in broken breath: “Even ruins hold their grace — and I will not make peace with death.” The void, enraged, reached out to claim, its whispers sweet as lover’s sin. But I, reborn through ache and flame, refused to drown — and breathed again. And though the storm devoured my frame, the ashes sang beneath my skin: for what is madness, but the same as courage born from ruin’s grin?