The Silence of Copper Pipes

The walls hold their breath, a network of metal veins cooling in the dark, remembering the heat of the morning's rush, now settled into a metallic hum.

Rust is a slow conversation, a quiet devouring of the bright and the smooth, turning the rush of water into a grainy whisper, where the sediment of years begins to sleep.

We live in the gaps between the echoes, listening for the drip that measures the night, a clock without hands, marking the time it takes for the house to forget our names.