THNTH

Excerpt — Eden’s Theory

Have you ever had the feeling that the life you’re living isn’t your first?

That was Eden’s feeling growing up.

Everything felt familiar—expected, lived in. She’d walk through places she’d never been before and know exactly where the light would fall, or how the air would smell after rain. She once wrote a paper about it in her philosophy class, a piece her professor still remembered years later.

In it, she theorized that the world doesn’t create new souls—only a few, every now and then. The rest of us, she argued, are simply recycled, wandering through time with fragments of who we once were. That’s why some people can travel to a new city and feel nostalgia instead of awe. Their soul, she wrote, recognizes what the body does not.

That theory was what drew her into photography.

She wanted to capture what memory might forget—

to hold proof that she had been there before,

or that something had happened there once.

Every photo, for her, was a breadcrumb through lifetimes.

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Excerpt — The Musician

He didn’t know how to explain it, but rhythm lived in him.

Not just as sound, but as pulse—

as blood, as breath.

Music wasn’t something he made.

It was what he was meant for.

So when he finally dipped his toes into the music world, it didn’t welcome him—it claimed him.

Swallowed him whole.

Every note, every lyric, every performance felt less like creation and more like remembering.

As if he and music had made a pact long before he was born.

Critics said it over and over again: *he was one with the stage.*

He didn’t just perform; he became.

The lights, the sound, the roaring crowd—he fed off their energy,

and they fed off his.

It was an exchange older than fame itself.

An unspoken ritual between artist and audience,

as if his soul had been built to be seen,

to be heard,

to be remembered.