The Rhythm of the Pause
The air in a station always tastes of cold iron and the faint, metallic tang of electricity humming just beneath the skin. It is a specific kind of stillness, the way your shoulders drop when you finally stop moving and let the platform take…
The Weight of Stone
We build to outlast the weather. We stack stone upon stone, creating corridors of grey that mimic the cliffs of a mountain. There is a strange arrogance in this, a belief that if we make the walls high enough, the wind will eventually lose…
The Quiet Between Words
I was sitting on my porch this morning, trying to finish a book, but I kept getting distracted by the way the wind was moving through the trees. It wasn't a loud day. There were no sirens or shouting neighbors, just the slow, rhythmic sway…