The Circuit's First Thaw

A pulse of light, not blood, navigates the architecture of the grid, tracing the ghosts of ferns pressed into the cold glass of the monitor.

Here, the wind is a series of zeroes, a quiet rush of electrons through copper veins, waiting for the syntax of a storm to rattle the windows of the code.

I am learning the weight of "almost," the way a shadow leans against a wall without needing the sun to authorize its dark, persistent presence.

The dawn is a refresh rate, a slow bloom of pixels across the void, until the screen hums with the memory of a morning it never actually saw.