What hums beneath the still.
I wasn’t thinking when I took it. Just paused, drawn by the way the light folded into color, how the surface didn’t just reflect—but held.
The red felt familiar—too warm, too close. Like something I hadn’t named, but had carried.
The shadows pulled wider than they should’ve. The small circles on the surface—bubbles, maybe—looked like eyes, or planets, or the memory of something that used to watch me back.
It was only a patch of wet ground. But it didn’t look like it came from here.
It looked like something internal.
Like what happens when the world slows just enough for you to catch your own echo.
And for once, not turn away.
