Palimpsest of Light

The afternoon light stacks itself against the brick facade like centuries pressed between pages— each hour a transparent sheet, nothing erased, only buried.

Coffee cooling in the corner café, someone's forgotten silk scarf drapes the chair like doubt. A pigeon lands, lands again, learning the same roof twice.

We walk through rooms we'll never live in, ghosting the doorways of other futures. The mirror holds everything it sees but returns nothing whole— just fragments, arranged and rearranged.

Somewhere beneath the city's hum, the old foundations still remember their forest. The stone was a mountain once, and before that just patient, patient earth.