The Weight of Iron
We often speak of memory as if it were a ghost, something diaphanous that drifts through the hallways of the mind, prone to fading with the light. But there is a different kind of memory—the one that occupies space. It is the memory of the…
A Rainy Walk
Town is quiet, too cold to walk alone, strangers in overcoats hurry on home. Some hurry on to catch the train; some need the rain to disguise them. The tears in their eyes, and the soul they bear, they need rain to wash them clear. They need…
The Persistence of Small Sparks
We are taught to fear the dark, to treat it as an absence, a void waiting to be filled. But the dark is patient. It is the canvas upon which the smallest flicker asserts its existence. A single point of warmth does not conquer the night; it…