The Sentry, By Ruben AlexanderThe Quiet Watcher
I spent an hour this morning trying to fix a loose hinge on my garden gate. It was a small, annoying task that I had been putting off for weeks. As I knelt there, screwdriver in hand, I noticed a spider weaving a web in the corner of the frame.…
The Breath of Morning
The air in the early hours has a specific weight, a damp velvet that clings to the skin before the sun has the strength to burn it away. It tastes of wet earth and salt, a cool, grey silence that settles deep in the lungs. I remember waking…
The Weight of Morning
The earth does not wake up. It simply waits for the light to find it. In the deep cold, before the sun has climbed the ridge, the stone holds the memory of the night. It is a heavy, silent patience. We are taught to fear the dark, to rush toward…