The Weight of Footsteps
I keep a small, rusted iron key in a velvet pouch, though I have long since forgotten which door it once opened. It is heavy for its size, cold to the touch, and carries the faint, metallic scent of a house that no longer exists. We spend so…
Small Beneath the Stars
I stepped onto my balcony last night to check if I had left the porch light on. The air was biting, the kind of cold that makes you pull your sweater tight against your chest. I looked up, expecting the usual city haze, but the sky was unusually…
The Weight of Water
We forget the feeling of earth against skin. The way the mud pulls at the heel, a soft, insistent gravity. As children, we understood that to be clean was to be separate from the world. To be dirty was to belong to it. We waded into the shallows,…