Blueprint of a Quiet Hour

The light leans against the brick, a tired geometry of dust and afternoon. Here, the silence is not empty; it is a structural member, holding up the ceiling.

Memory is a draftsman's error, a staircase leading to a door that never opened. We walk through rooms we forgot to build, tracing the ghosts of furniture in the air.

The clock measures nothing but the weight of shadows shifting across the floor. If you listen closely, you can hear the blueprint breathing, exhaling the cold.