The Language of Stillness

The city is a roar I left behind. Here, there is only the damp breath of pines and the weight of my own thoughts. My dress clings to me like a second skin, cool against my pulse.
You appeared as if you were always there, woven into the shadows of the ferns. Your hand found mine first—a warm anchor in the gray mist. It did not ask for anything. It simply held.
We stood for a long time, two pulses merging under the canopy. No words were needed. Just the slow rhythm of your heart against my palm, teaching me how to be still again.

Editor: Pure Linen