The Quiet Rust

The iron gate forgets its swing, hinges seized by the slow bloom of orange scale. A single vine threads through the wrought-iron heart, pulling the metal back to earth.

Footsteps no longer echo on the cobblestone, only the percussion of autumn seeds falling into the damp groove of shadow where moss insists upon its green reign.

It is a gentle yielding, this surrender, not a collapse but a long exhalation, as the geometry of our making dissolves into the sprawl of the unmade.