The Cartographer of Quiet

In the attic of dusk, I unfold a map of hush, creases like riverbeds, ink gone soft as moth wings. Each room a small continent, each stair a thawing spine, and the light keeps its distance, a lantern of held breath.

A compass made of pewter turns without a north, following the tide of a kettle’s sigh. I trace the coastline of a name I once carried, where the sea remembers and erases in the same stroke.

Outside, rain rehearses its thousand tiny doors. The garden’s stones listen, polished by years of weather. I mark the route between two silences— one in the heart, one in the sky.

When morning arrives, it does not insist. It pours through shutters, a slow, pale blue. I fold the map and place it back in the dark, knowing the country is still there, unfolding me.