The Space Between Bells

The bells have stopped ringing and what remains is the shape of noise— a hand-sized silence cupped between buildings.

I listen for the echo that won't come, tracing the rim of quiet like braille, learning what words refuse to say.

The street settles into its own breathing. A pigeon lands on the bell tower, its shadow a small question mark.

Time doesn't move forward here, it pools like water at the base of stone— and I am drowning in the stillness, my lungs full of the music that almost was.