The Silver Hour of Us

The world is too loud in color, so I have stripped it back to ink and light. Here on this shore, there are no distractions—only the stark contrast of a pale moon against an obsidian sky.
He arrived with nothing but two glasses of red wine that look like liquid shadows under this lunar glow. He doesn't speak; he simply stands in my peripheral vision, his silhouette cutting through the silver mist like a forgotten memory returning home.
I feel the warmth of the glass in my hand and the slower heat of his gaze tracing the curve of my waist—a dark line etched against a luminous background. In the city, we were two ghosts haunting separate boardrooms, but here, reduced to light and shade, I am finally visible.
He steps closer. The distance between us becomes a thin sliver of darkness soon filled by his hand on my skin. No words are needed when silhouettes speak so clearly: 'I have found you.' This is not romance; it is an architecture of belonging.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost