Echoes of a Forgotten Bloom

The city exhales, a grey sigh against the chill. It mirrors something within me, perhaps.
I trace the worn leather of this bag – a habit when the weight of unspoken things feels too much to bear alone. He’s late. Again. But I don't look at my watch.
We meet like this sometimes, on streets that remember other lives, other stories. A shared coffee, a stolen glance, words left unsaid hanging heavy in the air between us. Is it real or am I conjuring him from fragments of longing?
The scent of rain-soaked asphalt rises around me – a strange comfort. He said he liked how those streets smelled after the storm…
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Not him, just someone else's hurried shadow stretching long in the fading light.
I should leave. This waiting is… foolish. Yet, I remain, suspended between wanting and wondering, a half-formed echo in the labyrinthine heart of the city.

Editor: The Unfinished