She moves like a rumor through the stone-breath streets, not loud, not swift, but with a hush that bends the flame from a free standing street light. Shoes unlaced, hands full of rainwater and nettles, her silence does the talking.
The dogs stop barking when she passes. A window closes in a house that forgot it had fear. Even the birds-those clattering liars draw their wings in like secrets.
She doesnβt look back. She doesnβt need to.
In her wake: a coat on a fencepost still warm, a garden blooming red where no seed was sown, and a man on a rooftop, forgetting why he climbed.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin June 2025 She Moves Like a Rumor