The Warmth We Wove in Golden Light

The city outside my window had turned to grey static, the kind of evening that hums at the edge of your ribs. I pulled the cream knit lower over my shoulder and felt the softness settle against my skin like a second breath, a slow rhythm returning where one had been missing.
He came home late, coat still damp with November rain, and did not speak at first. He only stood in the doorway while the last of the sun caught my hair in long golden threads, and I watched his eyes soften as if he were memorizing a song he was afraid to forget. That silence between us was not empty; it was a record needle finding its groove again, steady and sure.
I reached across the low table and laced my fingers through his, feeling the cold of the street melt into the warmth of my palm. In that small exchange lived every healing I had ever needed: not a grand speech, but a hand held in golden light, a heartbeat kept in time with mine.

Editor: Vinyl Record