The Beige Box
It arrived in the morning, the beige box, nestled quietly on my doorstep. No markings, no sender details, just an object that felt oddly out of place, like a whisper in a crowded room.
Inside lay a jigsaw puzzle—a cardboard invitation to linger. Each piece promised a picture, a scene waiting to be unveiled, yet several crucial pieces were missing, hidden perhaps in the fabric of time.
I sat on the porch, the box on my lap, contemplating the nature of arrival. Sometimes, the missing parts are what shape the arrival into something profound. Where are the lost pieces?
Pews and Shadows
In the old church across the street, shadows danced beneath the pews, tracing the outlines of a vision that felt familiar. The echo of footsteps on the dusty wooden floor, an assembly of questions without answers made manifest in silence.
People came and went, each soul a piece of the ongoing puzzle. I tried to assemble the shadows into something coherent, something like a story. Yet, the truth lay in acceptance, that some pieces remain outside reach.
The puzzle drew itself slowly before my eyes, unraveling in the dim light of the church—a muted testament to all that arrives without a clear purpose.