Stories From the Quiet
A wind-tossed night left bark freckles on the windowsill and a hush like a held breath. By lantern, I brewed tea and watched deer prints stitch across the fresh snow. Nothing demanded answering, except the kettle, softly insisting.
Stories From the Quiet
Clouds dragged shadows over the moor while peat smoke threaded the doorway. A stranger arrived, said hello, then honored the silence. We shared water, traded maps, and parted at dusk. Solitude held, yet community flickered like embers in a grateful grate.
Stories From the Quiet
Before sunrise the canyon swallows glowed faintly, and a cactus wren scolded my crunching steps. I paused, stilled the zipper, and heard water under stone. Finding shade later, I wrote one line: When you stop, the desert begins speaking.
