Home · Works · Rights · About · Texts · Contact · ES →
Eyes wide open.
Too wide.
Cold writes itself
into the pens.
The bag — behind him —
pulling at his shoulders
as if it weighed another day.
Columns.
A staircase that moves away
even as he climbs.
The boy looks.
A gap with no shout.
No shove.
No fall.
He looks.
But looking here
gives nothing back.
No adult.
No hand.
Only steps.
And that fear
that already fits inside his chest.
Fingers holding on
to a cold that knows their shape.
The notebook gives.
Bends.
The corridor holds its breath.
The boy moves
at the exact speed
of someone who knows
that staying
also hurts.
He looks for a clear space.
A clean step.
One second without contact.
Nothing.
No one names him.
And without a name,
everything presses harder.
The fright
was already there.
He wakes with it.
It fills his chest
as if it had been born there.
The narrow stretch.
The walls come closer.
Just enough.
The bag scrapes.
Sounds.
Inside,
the pencils knock together
as if warning him.
The boy doesn’t quite look.
He adjusts his step.
Looks for something firm.
Something that won’t give.
But the silence
walks ahead.
Doesn’t wait.
Marks.
Knows.
Then —
the hand.
A pulse.
Brief.
His own.
The boy stops
without staying.
Breathes.
Deep.
For the first time.
The fear comes.
As always.
Pushes.
But it doesn’t enter the same way.
Something doesn’t open.
Something of his
stays.
And he walks.
Straighter.
The bag no longer pulls.
It accompanies.
The walls remain.
But they don’t close.
The air reaches.
He looks.
Straight ahead.
No adult.
There never was one.
And it doesn’t matter.
In the exact curve
of his step
he understands:
the threshold
doesn’t push.
It goes with him.
Silence.
And he moves forward.
Because moving forward
no longer depends on the night.
It depends on him.
On that brief pulse.
His own.
That holds.
What stayed with you? After Reading →