One Woman---standing at a small train station, with her life on her back. A cigarette glows between her hands... Beautiful tale---Woman alone, moving on! She doesn't know, perhaps, that she waits for me--- And so---she drifts through fog... From here---no train has passed in ages! The rails wear a coat of grass... A young man---arrived from Nowhere--- offers her a walk... Sometimes---a Path is enough--- if it is walked---with a Soulmate...
# Unsent Letter I was about to write your name when the pen grew hesitant. The ink pooled like a dark confession at the nib's edge. What was I thinking— that words could bridge what silence has made its home? Outside, the afternoon tips into shadow. A crow calls from the telephone wire. Even birds know better than to repeat themselves. I fold the blank page once, twice. The crease holds like a scar that won't lighten. If I sent it—this emptiness— would you recognize yourself in what was never said? Would you read between the lines and find your own name written in invisible ink? The stamp sits in its small square of anticipation. But my fingers remember how you stopped answering. How the last conversation ended not with a period but with a trailing thread I've been pulling ever since. Some letters are meant to live in the drawer, growing old alongside the heart that composed them. Some silences are so profound they become a kind of music— not the music of words, but the music of what remains when everything has been said and still, nothing has changed. I set the letter down. The pen rests. Outside, the crow has flown.
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