A quiet standard rises in the shadows of expectation. When the watch­dogs are bound by whispers and the keeper of the flag grows still, the echo of the unsaid gathers strength. In the march of the silent banner we listen for the foot-falls of the unseen tide.

Here in the hush before the storm we confront the weight of colors held aloft by trembling hands. The promise stands in the flicker of crimson-embers and we ask whether freedom is a shout … or the echo of what we never said.

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