The sky was the color of
cold tea, pressing
against the window like a
held breath. He sat on
the floor, back against
the radiator, watching
the rain streak the glass
in uneven lines. His
coffee had gone cold
hours ago, the mug
leaving a ring on the
wooden floor.
A bird landed on the
sill, shook its
feathers, and flew off.
He didn't move. The
room smelled of dust and
old paper, and the light
through the window was
thin, gray, filtering
onto his hands like ash.
He turned his phone over
and over in his palm,
but didn't unlock it.
The rain softened to a
drizzle. The window
stayed streaked. He
stayed sitting.
Somewhere above the clouds, the sun was burning—but he couldn't see it from here.