Hushed Tides
The night was humid. Thick air, clinging to his neck like old regret. He stepped into the station. Midnight hours, when the world seemed to breathe quieter. The howling time. He used to think of wolves. Beautiful, tragic creatures. They mate once. And if that mate dies — they never choose again. A foolish thought. But he couldn’t help it. The moon hung low above the station roof, and it made him think of her. Not in words. In feeling. In silence. The stars blinked like distant memories — soft, quiet, unreachable. He walked to the platform, alone. Benches, stained with rust and sleep. A flickering tube light. A vending machine humming in the dark. He sat. Still. The silence was loud — louder than the city ever was. And the air, soaked in moisture, felt too heavy to swallow. His fingers curled into fists. His throat tightened. No. Not here. Not again. He clenched his jaw. Held it in. Fought like a man trying to hold back the ocean with a paper wall. But grief is patient. It waits. His ey...
