The Cartographer of Quiet

I draw a map of pauses on the kitchen table, ink bleeding like dusk into the grain of wood, each silence a ridge where thunder forgot to speak, and the kettle becomes a small, patient hill.

Outside, the orchard tilts its old umbrellas, branches stitched with rain, a slow metallic thread. I name the places where a sparrow hesitates, where light pools, then lifts its skirts to leave.

A road of steam climbs from my cup to the ceiling, vanishing into the attic's boxed-up summers. I follow it with a finger, not to arrive, but to remember how distance can be tender.