He didn’t beat the day into silence; he learned where it breathed.

  Heel. Mat. Smear. Laugh. “Your father.” SLAP. He walked that spine until his head rang, until his nose bled, until voices slid out of step and the hunger gnawed. The rack was moved. The chalk spoke too loud. He turned one piece and the hour found another. Then, two cuts in the same breath. No trip. No line. The slap never found its cue. Fullness came clean. The day moved.

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  The loop didn’t vanish. It thinned like smoke clinging to cloth. Gb? whispered nearer. Time felt heavier in the hands, like it had noticed him back.

  The market quieted; the questions didn’t.

  And in the night, the old dream waited…