The Well
Morning.
The rope damp in his hands.
Stone cool against his knees.
He lowered the bucket.
It struck the wall,
rang once,
then went quiet.
Someone stood behind him.
He did not turn at first.
The air felt thinner,
like breath held too long.
When he looked,
she was there—
bare feet in the dust,
watching the mouth of the well
as if it might answer her.
They said nothing.
The bucket rose, heavy with water.
It spilled over his wrist,
cold enough to sting.
She reached for his hand.
Her fingers were cool.
Unfinished.
For a moment,
everything stayed.
The rope stopped burning.
The world balanced
on the sound of water
settling in the bucket.
Then it ended.
No sign.
No wind.
Light thickened.
A bird cried out.
The rope bit again.
Years later,
he still drew water there.
Sometimes, at dawn,
the air thinned.
He would pause,
hand on the rope,
and feel the place
where something once stood
and taught his body
what it would not keep.
—
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