The Cartographer of Silence

In the attic of noon, I unfold a blank map, its paper smelling of rain that never fell. Every crease is a river of hush, where moths alphabet the light.

I mark the kitchen clock as a mountain, its hands trudging a snowless ridge. Below, the kettle is a small volcano, breathing a tremor into the cups.

Outside, the street is a long violin string, tuned by bicycles and late buses. A dog drifts through like a warm chord, and the mail slots blink their iron eyes.

At dusk I roll the map back into my chest, a shoreline of unsaid names. I walk the rooms by ear, learning where silence keeps its coins.