They walked beneath the street scaffolding like ghosts rehearsing memory—each step a soft percussion against the bones of the city, against the gooseflesh of late Fall. Neon bled through the rain, and time, that old fool, folded itself around them like aluminum foil.
One hummed something that might have been love; the kind that tastes of moldy air and last chances. Another laughed—low, like the streetlights flickering to keep from fading further. And the tallest one said nothing at all, just carried silence like a letter never mailed.
They were not leaving or arriving—only passing, as if motion itself were a soft grace whispered against the fleeting wind.
The rain thinned. The false gospel of the neon dimmed. Somewhere under the scaffolding, water gathered itself and fell again, patient, repeating.
The one who hummed swallowed the last note like it had somewhere better to be. The one who laughed let it die in his throat. And the tallest one, carrying that sealed silence, felt it press heavier now—if only for a moment—as if the letter had learned the weight that silence keeps.
They slowed, though none of them would have named it, and they kept walking.
Photography by Rafael Delavequia Corona // Developed and scanned by Laboratorio Espiral
As a school teacher, composer, and photographer, I try each day to carry less interest in the things I already know, and more fascination for what I decide to do about the things I don’t know.