Veil of the Known

The river speaks in hushed tones, its currents thick with secrets, folding into themselves— the weight of unspoken histories dredged along the silt.

I do not step in. The water remembers too much.

The city breathes metal and wire, a maze built on absence, corridors wound so tightly that voices lose their way, disappearing before they reach the ear that listens.

I do not linger. Echoes have sharped edges.

Above, the sky bruises with evening, a hush before the storm rattles loose the bones of quiet streets. Lightning fractures the dark, too brief to hold, too sudden to name.

I do not follow. Names are only borrowed, and some things are better left untold.