The Static Between Signals

The city holds its breath between the last train and the first light.
He said he’d be here. A foolish hope, perhaps, to cling to a whispered promise in this place of fleeting moments.
I watch the dust motes dance in the fading sun, each one a memory I thought lost. The scent of rain on asphalt hangs heavy – just like him.
This leather bag feels heavier than it should; empty space has weight, they say. It’s filled with unspoken words and the ghost of a touch.
A car slows, headlights cutting through the gloom. Not him. A familiar ache settles in my chest - the one that comes with expecting less and still being disappointed.
But then there's the echo of his laughter, a phantom warmth on my skin. Maybe some absences are just another form of presence, a subtle reminder of what lingers beneath the surface. The static between signals is sometimes where the real story lies.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler