The Listener

The listener sits in the hum of the city, not hearing traffic or voices, but the breath-space between words, the small silence where meaning lives.

In that white room of quiet, doors open to hallways she'd forgotten—a grandmother's humming over dishes, rain on a roof that no longer exists.

Sound is memory made material: each note a key that turns in locks we didn't know were locked, releasing what waited patiently in the dark.

She closes her eyes and listens for the conversation that never happened, the words caught in her throat like birds, finally learning to sing.