Crimson Hour
Crimson Hour
The man stood at the edge of the crumbling pier, coffee in hand, steam curling like breath into the cold morning air. It was just past five. The world was still asleep, except for the crows and the waves and him. His name was Marcus Hale, a name that once regularly appeared on lecture bills and book covers. “The Rational Hammer,” they used to call him. Proud atheist. Philosopher. Debunker of celestial nonsense.
Yet here he stood, motionless, gazing at the horizon that had caught fire.
The sky bled red—scarlet, deep orange, bruised plum—colors so intense they seemed to hum. The clouds were not clouds, but strokes on a divine canvas. And the sun, not yet risen, seemed to be a secret whispered between sea and sky.
Marcus squinted. His fingers tightened around the mug.
He knew the science. The angle of light through the atmosphere, refraction, dust particles. He could quote the explanation like scripture, could reduce this beauty to a formula with his eyes closed.
And yet…
There was something in the air, something older than science, something not captured in charts or chemical breakdowns. He felt it in his chest, a soft ache, like nostalgia for something he’d never known.
It wasn’t belief. Not exactly.
Just…a pause. A question.
What if?
He shook his head, embarrassed at the flicker of wonder.
“I need more sleep,” he muttered, turning away.
But even as he walked back toward the cabin, he couldn’t help but glance back, one last time.
The sky still glowed.
And for the first time in decades, Marcus Hale didn’t feel entirely alone in the universe.
