The Lanterns Did Not Ask For My Warmth

I lean my shoulder against the shoji screen and feel the paper give, just slightly, like a held breath finally released. The corridor is old wood and warm light, the lanterns glowing the color of cold tea steeped too long. Someone left them on for me, or perhaps for no one at all; in this city, that distinction rarely matters.

He came home after eleven with rain still clinging to his coat, and he did not speak, only set a cup of something hot beside my hip. I watched the steam rise and dissolve into nothing. That is how healing works here, I think: not as a flood, but as vapor you can almost catch in your fingers.

My skin is damp with its own heat, a private weather no one else will ever read. I do not turn to look at him. The lanterns do not ask for my warmth; they simply hold it up for a moment and let the dark decide what to do with it.

Editor: Cold Brew