Akine's First Day
The room the gallery owner lent her was small yet warm, faint with cedar.
She touched the worn quilt and listened to the muffled silence.
The town’s air was different—cool, wide, tinged with salt and metal.
Restless, she stepped into the dim street,
lamps leaning like old men in quiet talk.
From beyond the murmur, a rhythm—
like footsteps, but alive, carrying heat.
It led her through an alley,
to a low building spilling light and sound.
Blues rock—her favorite. A rehearsal.
She peeked inside, guilty, curious.
The drummer drew her eyes.
She slipped back out,
telling herself she had seen nothing, heard nothing,
breathing into the wind.
Yet the rhythm lingered,
Ghobbuls Voice
Perhaps you already know.
What you saw was neither shadow
nor illusion.
The sound, too, not for the first time.
Only hidden, concealed.
It had simply not remained
as presence.
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