Author’s Note – A Presence, Not a Story
You’ve already met him. Felreil appears in every Six Sentence Story in the Book of 27. He is the stillness in the doorway—the witness behind the Colour. This is his name, his silence, his breath. (You may never see the stories the same way again after reading this.) But this is not a story. This is the shape of someone who stands between stories—the one who watches, listens, and never turns away. I often write these long-form pieces before I write the Six Sentence version. They help me find the voice of the Colour… or in this case, the one who carries them. This is Felreil. Keeper of silence. Witness to what goes unwitnessed.
FELREIL – (the keeper of unheld breaths)
I. The Witness
Felreil is not the story—
he is the hush after the last word,
the shape a life leaves
when lifted from its bed of moments
like a body from snow.
You’ll find him in the pause
between the knife and the wound,
between the vow and its unraveling,
where time thins
and every choice
casts its shadow backward.
He does not judge.
He bears weight—
the kind that makes clocks slow
when he passes.
II. The Vessel
His pockets are full of things
that don’t exist:
the echo of a laugh never laughed,
the weight of a letter never sent,
the exact pressure of a hand
pulling away
from a doorknob
it decided not to turn.
Felreil does not keep these things.
He lets them keep him—
carving their names
into the walls of his ribs
where no one hears
but the wind.
III. The Stillness Between
He stands where others flee:
in hospital hallways at 3 a.m.,
on bridges where the railing still hums
from a touch too brief,
in kitchens where the tea steam
curls into the shape
of a question
no one asked aloud.
He is not peace.
He is the acknowledgment
that peace is not always possible—
only presence.
His hands?
They have held more dying lights
than the moon has.
IV. The Revelation
He does not summon colours.
They rise to him
like bruises to skin—
inevitable, honest,
already there.
When he looks at you,
you don’t feel seen.
You feel found—
as if your deepest silence
had a name all along,
and he’s been whispering it
to the dark
for years.
V. The Farewell (That Isn’t)
Felreil does not say goodbye.
Goodbyes are for stories
that end.
He simply steps back
into the air,
leaving only the imprint
of his attention—
a space so precise,
so unflinching,
that you realise:
you were the one
who walked away.
And the wind?
The wind learned weeping
from the places
he’s stood too long.
This liturgy is a stream-of-consciousness poem. To access all of the instalments of this series, please use this link. To access the Liturgy poems only, please use this link. If you haven’t read the brief Prologue (or Before) post, it be useful in understanding this series. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
Previous Instalments – To access all of the instalments on one page, please use this link
It's Still Life 
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