I do believe in signs. Quiet murmurs woven into the fabric of everyday moments, subtle threads that pull at the edges of awareness when I'm willing to notice. Sometimes it's the way the wind shifts just before rain, carrying a scent that feels like a forgotten memory; other times, it's a sudden birdcall in the stillness, or the way a stray sunbeam catches on cracked glass, painting the room with fragments of light. These are not commands or clear messages, but gentle invitations, whispers from a world that is both seen and unseen. I think the universe speaks in riddles and half-truths, trusting us to find meaning in the spaces between. Believing in signs means trusting the silence as much as the noise, embracing uncertainty while holding onto hope. And, for me, these moments are both solace and question: a delicate balance between fate and free will. They remind me that I am part of something larger, tangled in a story that unfolds slowly, like moss growing over stone. Patient, persistent, and quietly alive.