The Stillness of Rust

An iron hinge forgets its swing, caught in the breathless bloom of orange scales. The wind presses against the wood, but the door yields nothing but a quiet groan, a slow surrender to the settling earth.

Vines thread through the fractured grain, measuring the hours in millimeters of green. They do not rush the ruin, only map the hollows where the paint peeled away, leaving the gray skeleton beneath.

We measure our days in noise and motion, but the latch knows the heavy grace of standing still. It drinks the rain and thickens into dust, a monument to the long, deep sleep that waits beyond the threshold.