Threshold Hours

Before the world learns its name again, in that pocket of air between breath and bell, the city holds its secret— a silence so complete it hums.

The streetlights fade like old photographs, their amber dulling to the color of almost-memory. I trace the edge of this hour where nothing is yet demanded.

Windows begin their slow confession, frame by frame, light relearning glass. A single car passes, its headlights drawing a line through the calm.

I am not ready for what comes next— the weight of intention, the names of things. So I sit in this interval where time has not yet decided to rush.