DYED

Ink seeps through the brush, slowly spreading across the hanji with an uncertain flow and direction. The paper, holding the ink, sways gently in the wind. What once soaked the surface now lifts with the breeze, subtly tinting the air with its scent. A deep aroma, like the lingering trace of charred wood, feels light and fresh when carried by the wind. Monotone. Black and white in stark contrast. Yet still, something blurred, something slowly bleeding at the edges. It moves with weight, while leaving behind the lightest, most unpredictable traces.