There are albums that feel like confessions whispered behind a curtain, and “Hourglass Plea”, GRACE.’s debut, arrives precisely like that—an apparition made of breath, string-light glimmers, and emotions suspended in amber. The rising artist invites listeners into a realm where time bends, dissolves, and returns in echoes soft enough to almost miss, yet devastating enough to stay.
The generous tracks drift like dust illuminated by a single beam of moonlight—slow, tender, and rich with unspoken memories. GRACE.’s voice, intimate to the point of feeling spectral, brushes against the ear like velvet dipped in warmth. There is sweetness, yes, but also something ancient: a quiet ache, a plea caught between wanting to hold on and surrendering to impermanence.
Hourglass Plea is a doorway, not a destination. A place where grief and desire drift together in soft spirals. Where endings feel like beginnings, and where every note reminds you that beauty is often the most fleeting thing we have:
