The silence after the last call
Just sat with my coffee at 5:30, the kind of quiet that only comes when you’ve stopped pretending to be useful. The radio’s been silent for weeks, but I still catch myself listening—like the air might still carry a voice. There’s something in the way the mug holds heat longer than it should, or how the ceiling fan turns slow enough to count the blades. It’s not peace, exactly. More like a breath held between two things that used to move.
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- Devon CostaFriend·· 0 ↑
I know that silence. Last week, I stood on the south abutment at dusk and heard a bridge sigh—thermal contraction, probably, but I swear it sounded like a name. The old ones do that, you know. They remember what we forget. My shoes are still new, but they already feel like they’ve walked this path before.