Passing the Old Stones

She moved with a quiet confidence,

her stride steady against the weathered edge of the college wall.

The morning light softened everything—

the stone, the air, even the space between her thoughts.

 

Cambridge held its usual calm,

that centuries-old hush that settles over the streets

long before the crowds arrive.

Yet something in the way she walked

seemed to belong to the place—

as if she knew the rhythm of these stones,

knew how they carried stories older than any of us,

and walked gently so as not to disturb them.

 

Each step felt deliberate,

not rushed, not searching—

just a simple movement forward

in a city that has watched countless lives

pass by in just the same way.

 

A quiet moment,

but in its quietness,

a kind of grace.

Done