The Geometry of Ancient Stone

The city breathes in heavy, hot exhales, a chaotic rhythm that usually drives me to the edge of my sanity. Here, amidst these carved giants who have watched centuries rot away, I found a strange, cold silence.

I hold this scroll like an anchor against the tide. The text is ancient, but my mind only occupies space for one variable: him. He stands somewhere behind that blur in the background, likely checking his watch while waiting to rescue me from solitude again.

My dress moves with a fluidity I rarely achieve inside the office glass towers. It catches the sun and turns it into something drinkable—cold brew poured over ice on a hot afternoon. He will come soon. We won't speak much; we never do in places like this. The silence is heavy enough to carry us both.

Editor: Cold Brew