Every story has a voice behind it — not always loud, not always seen. But present.

For me, it started with dreams. Strange ones. Vivid, graphic, and heavy. I couldn’t shake them. I’d never considered myself a writer — not really. Before this, the most I’d written was maybe thirty pages. But something in those dreams wouldn’t let go.

So I wrote. One page turned into hundreds. And what began as a warning became a world.

I’m not a prophet. I’m not a rebel. Just someone who was willing to say yes.

My life is shaped by memory, by the weight of culture, and by the quiet presence of faith — the kind that doesn’t always explain itself, but guides everything. I’m not here to convince anyone. I just follow what I know to be true.

Some will recognize it. Others will just keep reading.

If something in this stirs you — if it puts language to a feeling you’ve carried for a while — maybe you were meant to find it.

Either way, I just wrote it down.