The street is gray,
and the wind keeps folding
the same torn flyer against the curb.
A sparrow lands—
not graceful,
just a weight on a wire
that trembles but does not break.

Someone hums behind a closed door,
the tune unfinished,
as if the voice is testing
whether sound can still exist.
The kettle clicks off.
Steam curls like a question
that never asks for an answer.

Outside,
the sky does not brighten,
but a single window
holds its light
longer than it should.