Cool Stone Against the Skin
The smell of limestone always brings me back to the damp, subterranean chill of a cellar I once hid in as a child. It is a scent that clings to the back of the throat, chalky and ancient, like the breath of a mountain. When I press my palm…
The Weight of a Breath
There is a stillness that precedes the arrival of something small. It is not the absence of movement, but the deliberate holding of it. In the deep woods, where the light struggles to reach the moss, one learns to stand so quietly that the…
The Weight of Staying
There is a specific silence that follows the closing of a cage door, even when the door is never locked. I remember the heavy iron latch of my grandfather’s garden gate, the way it clicked shut, signaling that the world outside was vast and…