The horizon is usually where the eye meets distance, a line dividing earth and sky. But there is another horizon, invisible to sight, carried silently within us. It is the horizon of memory and self, where fragments of the past and the unspoken weave together. To cross it is not to travel outward, but inward—into the depths where silence becomes language, where shadows become maps, where the body itself is inscribed with what has been lived. The inner horizon is not fixed; it shifts and trembles dissolves and reforms, like memory itself. It is the place where we meet ourselves as strangers, and where every fragment we recover redraws the boundary between who we were and who we are becoming.