ashes of thought
the last light of the week cuts sharply through the city, carving out silence where noise has been. christopher, the bookseller, sits in its path, framed by the weight of his own stories. smoke curls into the cold air, dissolving like unfinished sentences. his wristwatch catches the light—a quiet reminder that time moves even when he does not. in his hands, a book, pages worn, read by others before him, waiting for those who come after. the moment feels borrowed, as if palma itself paused for just a breath.
ashes of thought
the last light of the week cuts sharply through the city, carving out silence where noise has been. christopher, the bookseller, sits in its path, framed by the weight of his own stories. smoke curls into the cold air, dissolving like unfinished sentences. his wristwatch catches the light—a quiet reminder that time moves even when he does not. in his hands, a book, pages worn, read by others before him, waiting for those who come after. the moment feels borrowed, as if palma itself paused for just a breath.