Threshold Light

In the station's empty hall, dust motes drift like hesitant prayers— each particle a world pausing before continuing its slow descent.

The clock hands move in syncopation with my heartbeat, and I understand this is what waiting means: the breath held between departure and arrival, the ghost of motion in stillness.

Somewhere a door closes softly. Someone calls a name that isn't mine, and I remember I too am waiting, that I too am dust and light, caught in the architecture of a moment.

There is a music here, beneath the silence— the hum of fluorescent becoming, the whisper of air moving through space, the ancient frequency of ordinary things learning how to be alive.