The Weight of a Trace
I remember sitting in a dusty cafe in Javanroud, watching a man walk past a sun-bleached wall. He didn't notice the shape he was casting, but I couldn't look away. There is something unsettling about a shadow; it is the only part of us that…
The Weight of Crumbs
The taste of dry flour still clings to the back of my throat, a ghost of a meal that ended too soon. I remember the sensation of grit against my teeth, the way a single piece of bread could feel like a heavy, precious stone in the palm of a…
The Weight of Softness
It is 3:14 am. The house is holding its breath, and for once, I am not trying to fill the silence with noise. There is a strange, heavy comfort in things that have no voice. We spend our days shouting to be heard, carving our names into the…