冬の光は儚く、短い。
低い空の下、静寂がすべてを覆い、影だけがゆっくりと広がっていく。
光の届かぬ時間が長くなるほど、心の奥にも冷たい闇が沈殿する。
幾度か、その闇に囚われて沈み込んだ冬があった。
人の足音が途絶え、自身の吐く息だけが白く揺らぐ公園。
置き去りにされたまま、時間の止まった風景。
その場所では、ただ、かすかな光だけが滲んでいた。
冬の終わりはまだ遠く、静けさだけが重たく降り積もる。
光は消え、声もなく、すべてがただそこにあるだけだった。
Winter light is fleeting—so delicate, so brief.
Beneath a low, heavy sky, silence blankets all things, and only shadows stretch, slowly, across the land.
As the hours without light grow longer, a cold darkness seeps into the depths of the heart.
There were winters when I sank, wholly, into that darkness—held and silenced by it.
In a park where no footsteps remain, where only the pale breath I exhale trembles in the air,
I found scenes left behind by time, suspended and still.
In those places, only the faintest light lingered, softly blurring at the edges.
The end of winter was still far away.
And in its place, only stillness fell—heavily, endlessly.
The light was gone, the voices had vanished, and all that remained was simply… there.
