Breath Held in Wood
The air in the mountains has a specific sharpness, a cold edge that tastes of damp earth and pine needles. It is a thin, biting sensation that settles deep in the lungs, making every inhale feel like a deliberate act of survival. I remember…
The Weight of a Whisper
I spent twenty minutes this morning trying to find my keys, only to realize they were in the pocket of the coat I had just taken off. It was one of those small, frantic moments where the world feels like it is moving too fast, and I am just…
The Weight of Our Footsteps
I keep a pair of my grandfather’s leather shoes in the back of my closet, the soles worn thin and uneven from years of pacing the same hallway. They are heavy, stiff with age, and carry the faint, lingering scent of cedar and dust. When I…