Woolen Whispers in an Iron City

I used to be a creature of glass and steel, my heart beating in sync with the flicker of neon signs and the cold hum of server rooms. Then he brought me here—to this place where time seems to nap under an old oak tree.
He didn't say much; he just handed me a lamb that felt like holding a warm cloud made of secrets. I can feel its small heart drumming against my ribs, a tiny rhythm reminding me how to breathe again without checking my watch every three minutes.
I look at him from the corner of my eye—his sleeves rolled up, dust on his boots—and suddenly, the city feels like a dream I’m glad to wake up from. There is something dangerously sweet about this silence, isn't there? The way he watches me hold the lamb with an expression that says 'stay,' even though neither of us has spoken.
I think I might just let my phone battery die in the car. Let them call; let them wonder where I’ve vanished to. For now, I am content being a girl who smells like wool and sunlight, wrapped in a moment so soft it almost hurts.

Editor: Cat-like Muse