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On the day our story began, the air trembled like a hymn, and I felt the world tilt gently, as if the earth itself conspired to set your soul beside mine. I was a swan discovering water, believing the lake had no end. The same number that gave me light later gathered its shadows. What once was a dawn turned into dusk’s silence, a closing wing where once was flight. And still I stood there, listening for echoes long after they had faded. I do not dress you in blame— love is a weight and a wonder, a river too vast for some hearts to bear. You drifted away like a star unfastened from the night, and I, left behind, kept my devotion folded in the hollow of my chest. They say the swan loves once, and once is enough. Its song is not repeated, its devotion not replaced. So too with me: I will not find another lake, another reflection, that carries your shape. So let this be my vow: I am the swan who has sung once. No other song will carry the same fire through my blood. The number stays— an eternal script in my bones, a truth without return: I will never love as I loved you.