Blue
carried
evening's taste.
The attic window
held fog.
Dust at its corners—
kept a polite inch.
Hands slowed
above his hair
and carved
tiny orbits,
letting his left ear lead.
Learning
came by head
and shoulder.
Grounded
came second,
stamped after his name.
Awareness
drifted—
grazing surfaces
without landing.
Each color
flared—
tender
in its failing.
The broken—
window
held
what the room
could not say.
Beside it—
a sock
curled in place,
toe pointing—
the way floorboards
run.
Sometimes
it faced the wall.
Sometimes—
not.
He never saw it move.
His gaze
lowered—
from the glass window,
back—
to the key.
A hinge,
not for a door,
but for—
a thought
he had not yet dared
to turn.
He brought it close
yet
his
hand
found
farther.
If he
dropped it,
would it
move
like the sock—
only
when he wasn't looking?
A knock—
his hand froze
halfway
to release.
The latch loosened—
his mother stood there
with the same
chipped mug
from the night
thunder—
learned his name.
Warm milk?
Her words trailed
above the steam,
the mug's hug—
almost a pillow.
White mist brushed
his cheek,
quiet—
as bedtime stories.
Thank you.
He reached
for the mug,
but its warmth
slipped sideways—
unexpected,
almost resisting
his hand.
Time to rest,
though her eyes
scanned
the dark
behind him,
listening.
I'll try,
the words—
half-landed.
The door
kept the width—
of listening.
Goodnight, Liam.
Her voice
arrived
from farther
than her body stood.
Goodnight.
He paused
mid-sip,
the rim
still touching
his lower lip.
The note
turned caramel
at the edge
of becoming.
Mug met wood.
A book—
waited.
Its title
held—
what the room
had stopped saying—
Invisible Cities.
Fedora's chapter.
pages opened
to crystal globes,
one in every room.
Each held
a city
that never was.
He'd tried
to count them.
Yet his gaze
drifted
toward the space
beside his own globe,
where paper
felt older,
thinner.
Its title
had worn away—
leaving only
its last word—
Wallflower.
Pages fluttered open
to a moment
the book chose.
Words
moved
before his eyes
could settle.
Shards glimmered, steady.
Every corner of the page
visible,
yet distorted,
as if seen
through glass.
Charlie's voice
gathered
at the edges
of each line.
Whir.
Stutter.
Click.
Light on the ceiling.
Wall.
Hands.
The page.
Everything
at once.
Then—
motion.
Sam
leaning
into the blur,
angling away.
The film
held the space
between frames
longer than the frames—
themselves.
He stood
at the edge
of the instant—
young
on one side,
this
on the other,
neither
claiming him fully.
He turned pages
until
her scent
stopped him.
A note:
I
n
f
i
n
i
t
e
then.
I
n
f
i
n
i
t
e
now.
The stars
still know
our secret...
Her voice
carried
the end—
of summer—
through the quiet seam.
Not quite real,
but kind—
enough
to leave—
the feeling
of being held—
by no one.
Hand hovered
above one more page.
Maybe—
she'd....
Lamp
became moon
became memory
over the hill's
sleeping curve.
Gaze fell
toward her hoodie—
collapsed
across the other chair.
Amber
sounded
like Tuesday mornings—
when she'd steal
his eraser,
then slide it back—
warm.
Vanilla
tasted
of midnights—
on abandoned rooftops
when she'd fold
seven paper stars,
and he'd find—
eight.
He turned
to find
the eighth star.
Hand
searched pockets
and counted
his fingers instead.
Ten.
He counted
the memories.
Numbers
slipped
the way cities
do.
Gaze softened
at a thought's
distance.
Luna's
diary.
Tender
where her touch
once lingered.
A Stillness
in the motion
not yet made.
The first page—
blank at first sight.
At the top—
the number
she'd write
when beginning
from nothing.
At the bottom—
a loop
that would not close.
Hands
unsteady.
The next page—
waited.
