Soliloquy of the Pathway

Remember when the elevator's button was labeled "ground zero"? It wasn't doom, but the anticipation of rise amidst static whispers of aged electronics.

The symphony of rain on tin taught the choreography of umbrellas, spinning softly in muted hues of blue and gray—a dance with no audience.

On Wednesdays, the library's clock ticked backward for an hour, rewinding thoughts before they could form syllables, gifting silence over sound.