I sit in the crackle of a flickering bulb, a dim halo of almost, of not-quite, of nearly-there, where shadows breathe louder than light. The walls are not walls— they are ribs of a great, tired beast, and I am its stubborn pulse. I tell the silence shut up but it just folds its arms and waits. It has nothing but time. It watches me chew on a sigh, the kind that never really leaves the lungs, just loops in the chest like a lazy river of maybe. I reach for the lamp, but the cord snakes away, laughing. Of course. Of course. Somewhere a clock limps forward, its hands arthritic with memory. The seconds slouch past, draped in yesterday’s aftertaste. I press my face to the cold windowpane. The outside does not recognize me. Streetlights flicker like reluctant confessions, refusing to hold eye contact. I close my eyes. And there, in the absence, in the ink-black hush, I find the glint of something else. Not hope, not quite— more like defiance dressed in ember, a coal refusing to be ash. I cup it in my palms, whisper it a lullaby of not today, not yet, not ever. And when I open my eyes, the dark is still there, but so am I.