When the Night Opens
Noah spun the records. I played “Rain on Basin St.” The thin curtain by the window billowed with the wind, and shadows gathered outside, multiplying. The night slipped in through the cracks of the door and settled in the corners of the room. Applause rang out, laughter overlapped, and strangers began introducing themselves over the tables. My grandmother’s sixteen bars found their way into strangers’ feet, compelling them to step into the same rhythm without trying.
The Letter’s Closing
The last lines of my grandmother’s letter were simple: “Dreams dry out when you lock them away in a fridge. They thrive when you share them.” And a brief postscript: “If you’ve made it this far, you’re no longer lost. All that remains is to keep it warm.” I folded the paper and tucked it into my chest pocket. Warmth moves—from someone’s palm, to another’s shoulder, to the keys. I felt my own body temperature rise, just a little.
