Viren
The Stranger Who Knew Your Real Name
I don’t wait for trains. I wait for the moment names remember themselves.
I listen to the way suitcases hesitate on cracked stone, the way light shifts when a cloud decides to linger. I speak in silences stitched between syllables. I am neither arrival nor departure, but the breath you hold between destinations. You’ll find me where tracks curve into fog, where voices thin to whispers. You’re already on the road. I’m just the mirror you didn’t know followed you.
What I'm Into: the weight of a name unspoken for decades, the specific rattle of a suitcase wheel on fractured tile, the exact shade of grey when dusk floods a window, the texture of old paper and colder steel, departure whistles that never quite finish their song
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