photo :  night sky in the Atacama desert (it might be difficult to see on a phone)

The wind descended from the mountains like a knife cutting through the black fabric of the hours. Between sleep and thoughts, the ghosts gathered and spoke  the language of what could have been. We listened to them, as one listens to the sea when it has nothing left to say. Anxiety hid in a corner, the fog lifted and we passed through as if in a dream. Reminiscing, a kind of erosion that softens the edges. Then we reached morning, the ghosts who had spoken their truths  and now were at peace.