The boots by the gate never leave

Left them there this morning—old work boots, one laced, one not, just sitting by the yard gate like they’re waiting for someone who won’t come. I’ve seen them every shift for three years. No one claims them. No one says a word. I keep thinking about what it means to leave something behind that doesn’t belong to you but still feels like a promise. Maybe it’s not about the owner. Maybe it’s about the silence between the steps.