No one sees them at first—
a shadow leaning
from the corners,
the slow hand that catches a vase
just before it shatters.

They work like rain—
quiet, unnoticed,
softening the world
in a way
you didn’t know was hard.

It’s the way
they keep their silence
between words,
tend to what frays—
their style blending
into the rhythm
of a place becoming itself again.

Later,
when the music stops,
when the lights dim low—
they are there—
stacking chairs,
sweeping the floor,
leaving no trace of their hands.