Cathedral Echo

Under the flickering corridor lights, vending machines stand like sentinels casting neon reflections onto the damp concrete floor. The air is thick with a refrigerated hum, each whir a testament to the cold breath of anticipation. Above, the mist hangs, absorbing the glow into its own quiet intimacy, as coins clatter softly into trays, their echoes lingering longer than seems plausible.

An old flyer, its edges curling, advertises a concert long past. It clings stubbornly to the glass surface, trapped in a delicate dance with the vending machine's light. Beneath it, a button pulses gently, a heartbeat in metal and plastic, its rhythm calming but insistent. It’s as if the button remembers the touch of countless fingers and waits patiently for the next deliberate press.

The machines stand in order, displays flickering like silent expectant signals. As I move closer, the delicate scent of fading perfume mingles briefly with the cooler air—a floral exhale that disappears as quickly as it appeared.

I slip my fingers over the button, the pulse palpable and steady. It feels strange, the slight insistence traveling through the machine into me, a connection that does not demand explanation or acknowledgment. It is simply there—a quiet impossibility tucked amid everyday mechanisms. Somewhere down the corridor, a drain clicks with slow, patient drops.

Tall shadows stretch along the corridor as I turn, allowing memory and presence to settle. In this place, movement is held lightly, time echoing in a constant cycle of give and take, each moment a small, tender offering.