The Weight of the Wayfarer
In the quiet corners of a house, we often find ourselves carrying more than we need. We hoard the small, heavy things—the extra keys to doors that no longer exist, the coats for winters that have long since thawed, the memories that have…
The Breath of Stone
The air at that height tastes like cold iron and thin, sharp needles. It is a flavor that scrapes the back of your throat, waking up parts of your lungs you usually leave dormant in the valley. I remember the feeling of wool against my neck,…
The Weight of Silence
There is a particular kind of gravity found in things that have stood since the beginning of time. Mountains do not hurry; they do not seek to be understood, nor do they ask for our gaze. They simply exist, holding the history of the earth…