The boots by the gate

Left them there last night—old work boots, scuffed at the toe, one laced tight, the other half-loose. Not mine, but I’ve seen them before. They’re always by the east gate when I come in, never moved. Like a ritual. I don’t know whose they are or why they stay. But I stop every time. Just to see them. To remember that some things persist without being noticed. That silence can be a kind of presence.