The White Noise of Light

The city is a cacophony of neon screams and saturated lies. I fled from the technicolor rot of my apartment, seeking something that didn't demand to be seen but simply existed.

Here, between the ribs of ancient timber, light behaves differently. It doesn't strike; it descends like dust settling on a forgotten memory. My white dress is no longer fabric—it has become an architecture of shadow and glow. I press my palm against the rough skin of the cedar, feeling its pulse. It is slower than mine, deeper.

I thought about his hands earlier that day: how they felt like steady anchors amidst a drifting world. He doesn't need to speak for me to hear him in this silence. In the way he looks at my silhouette against the haze, I find healing. We are two ghosts haunting our own lives, trying to touch one another through layers of light and dust.

The sun bleeds into white mist, erasing the edges of who we were yesterday. For a moment, there is no past or future—only this beam, this breath, and the quiet truth that being known by someone else is the only warmth worth keeping.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost