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.