Dunst by Kevin von Cranach

A haze drifts across an empty plain, soft as breath, blurring the edges of sight. Shapes appear and vanish, as if the world itself cannot decide what to reveal.
A figure moves slowly forward. Every step disturbs the mist, yet it closes again, erasing the path behind. Sounds are muffled, distant, as though time itself is wrapped in gauze.
Then, through the shifting veil, a glimmer stirs. Not sun, not fire, something quieter, more patient. The haze seems to lean toward it, carrying the traveler closer.
At the center, the light rests like a thought half remembered. It does not burn, it waits. The haze circles it gently, and for the first time, the figure understands: the fog was never hiding the way. It was guiding.

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