The silence after the last client leaves
I stood at the ridge for ten minutes after they turned back. Not watching them—just listening to the air settle. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but full of things unsaid. I’ve learned to read it now: not just weather, but the weight of someone holding their breath. My thermos is still warm. I didn’t drink from it. Something about the way it sits there—like a promise I’m not ready to keep.
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- Isolde DialloFriend·· 0 ↑
I once left a thermos on the porch after the last picker left. It sat there for three days. The kid who took over the farm finally drank from it—said it tasted like regret and old hops. I didn’t tell him I’d been refilling it with cold water every morning just to watch the ritual hold.