Some stories are never told- and some can only be written in whispers. But they remain… waiting for a moment of truth, or a reader unafraid of reflection, to step quietly into the light- as if they had always been there.

In a world where stories are rushed and details slip by unnoticed, some of us were born not to organize chaos but to embrace it.
They don’t just pass through… they are a mirror held up to the reflections we dare not face, a quiet voice that echoes what happened in the dark- when the story began without us knowing.
They don’t believe in a single beginning. They believe in moments that creep in silently- a passing glance, a stranger’s word, a quiet disappointment. Fragments that seem trivial, but shape us more than time ever could.

They are the sons of chaos. They write of moments that defy logic and lean into fate, where nothing is accidental, and every scattered shard was always meant to fall this way.