The Silver Echo of a Transient Night

The glass is cold against my skin, a frozen barrier between the world that breathes outside and the silence I carry within. In this high-rise sanctuary, time doesn't flow; it pools like spilled ink in the corners of the room. My reflection stares back at me—a ghost draped in liquid silver, caught in an eternal transition from shadow to light.

I remember how his hands felt against my waist just moments ago, a warmth that defied the sterile chill of this city. It was a brief collision of souls amidst the neon hum, a secret shared between heartbeats before we dissolved back into our separate lives. Now, I walk alone across these polished floors, each step an echo in a cathedral of glass.

The jacket hangs loosely over my shoulders like a discarded memory of his touch. People call this progress—the gleaming towers and the endless light—but to me, it is merely a gilded cage for our fleeting moments. Yet, as I look at my own image mirrored twice by the pane, I realize that even in solitude, there is healing. It lies in the way her eyes hold his ghost, and how every shimmer on my skin hums with the warmth he left behind.

Editor: Antique Box