Before the Bells

The city holds its breath in that blue hour when nothing has begun, when even the birds rehearse in whispers. I stand at the window watching shadows thin like watercolors in reverse.

The street is a museum after hours— each lamppost a sentinel remembering what happened in the dark. Pigeons waddle through their private grammar, unbothered by the imminence of everything.

My coffee steams into the silence, a small rebellion against the cold. I think about hands that haven't touched anything yet, words still sleeping in their alphabets, the long day folded like a map I haven't opened.

The bells will come. The crowds, the chorus of what needs doing. But not yet. Not yet. The world remains a question mark, and I am still allowed to wonder.