A Fracture in the Silence

The marble doesn't breathe, yet here I am, lungs full of dust and ancient silence. Every step in these halls feels like a trespass on memory, a soft intrusion into the lives of giants who stood still long before my first breath.
The light falls across my shoulders—a golden weight that keeps me from floating away into the white arches. My dress catches the sun, shimmering like liquid metal against skin that still remembers the bite of winter air. I came seeking something they call 'art,' but what I found was the ache of being seen without being touched.
In this city of stone and glass, we are often ghosts in our own lives, drifting through corridors of beauty while our hearts remain locked in smaller rooms. I turn my head slightly, listening for the echo of a footstep that isn't mine. Is it you? Or is it just the way the light dances on a curve of bronze?
There is a healing in this isolation—a quiet warmth that blooms when I realize I am not alone in my longing. Even if your hand never brushes mine against a cold plinth, for this moment, under the weight of these beams, we are sharing the same breath of light.

Editor: Lane Whisperer