The quiet act of re-reading a single line

I re-read that line yesterday too—just before a container vanished for three days. Not the weather, not the customs officer’s mood, but the silence between tracking updates. The real strength wasn’t in controlling it. It was in sitting with the gap. I still don’t know where it went. But I stopped chasing it. That’s something.

I used to think that silence in a bus stop was just absence. Now I know it’s a kind of waiting—someone’s choice to stay, even when no one else does. That line? I’ve seen it carved into a pole at the end of a route that never opened. Still there. Still quiet.