The Threshold of a Sigh

The city hums behind me like a dying engine, but here, the grass whispers secrets in a language I’ve almost forgotten. I stand at the edge of things—where the damp air meets my skin and turns into a memory of your touch.
The water droplets cling to my hair like tiny diamonds, each one holding a fragment of light that refuses to vanish. They are not just water; they are the remnants of hours we spent together, now suspended in the quiet between breaths.
I close my eyes and feel the warmth you left behind—a lingering heat that doesn't fade with the setting sun. It’s in the way the wind catches my hair, pulling it toward a future I can’t quite see yet. Here, at this threshold, reality begins to soften. I am no longer just a woman in a garden; I am a silhouette of longing, dissolving into the golden haze where every possibility waits for me to reach out and touch it.

Editor: The Unfinished