In the corridor, silence stretches thin,
as the clock ticks its quiet rhythm.
The air holds the scent of waiting,
like a forgotten book on a dusty shelf.
Papers rustle like whispers of an old tale,
the chair creaks with each uncertain shift.
A faded shop sign outside the window,
letters worn by countless storms,
tells stories of bustling days past
when laughter spilled onto the streets,
now just echoes in the wind,
as I wait for my own story to begin.
The phone rests on my knee, silent,
its screen a blank slate of possibility.
Voices pass by, a parade of footsteps,
each step a reminder of journeys taken.
I trace the patterns on the floor tiles,
finding maps in their intricate designs.
And then, a shift in the air,
as if the world takes a gentle breath.
The call doesn't come, yet I find
in the quiet, a new path unfolds.
The loss of what never was,
becomes a gift in its own right