The fog came in low around me,
as if trying to remember the shape of the street.
A single lamp hummed, soft as a held breath.
Somewhere in the distance, a window closed like a quiet decision.
The cobblestones glistened faintly, rehearsing the memory of rain.
I paused, unsure whether the cold on my skin
belonged to the weather
or to something I had carried with me into the dark.
A shadow moved at the far end of the street, slow and unhurried,
as if it, too, were listening
for whatever the night had not yet said.
And in that moment, I felt the faintest shift inside me,
as though the silence had placed a hand on my shoulder.
The shadow paused, as if listening again,
then vanished into the deeper dark beyond the lamp.
I stood there a moment longer, unsure
whether it had taken something from me, or returned it—
only aware, at last,
of the quiet weight
where the silence
had rested its hand.