The Rust of Time and Your Warmth

I am a ghost in my own city, drifting through concrete veins that never sleep. I found this carousel at the edge of memory—a place where time had grown tired and decided to stop.
My sweater is frayed at the elbows, much like my soul after three years in an office with no windows; it holds onto me like a soft skin I’ve forgotten how to inhabit. The wind tastes of salt and distant trains, pulling strands of hair across my face as if trying to whisper secrets from another life.
Then you arrived, not with noise but with the kind of silence that speaks volumes. You didn't ask why I was sitting on a painted horse in an abandoned park at dusk; you simply stepped beside me and draped your coat over my shoulders—a weight so familiar it felt like returning home after a long exile.
Your fingers brushed against mine, barely touching yet sparking something ancient beneath the surface. In that flicker of contact, I felt the cold city dissolve into mist. You smelled of cedarwood and midnight rain, an invitation to be known without words.
We sat there in the golden hour’s fading glow—two broken things leaning on each other under a silent Ferris wheel. For the first time in years, the rust didn't feel like decay; it felt like jewelry worn by history itself. I closed my eyes and let your warmth rewrite me from within.

Editor: Floating Muse