Everything Will Awe

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The flower had no interest in becoming famous. It had already solved red years ago and now spent its afternoons listening to the wallpaper think.

The city rested politely against the horizon like a stack of novels that had forgotten which one contained reality. Every window glowed with a different opinion about the night, but none of them argued. Darkness had become an excellent moderator.

She sat on the balcony the way birds occupy telephone wires—lightly, as though she might fly away if one more beautiful thought landed beside her.

The cigarette wasn’t a habit. It was a tiny weather system, manufacturing one cloud at a time for a sky that had misplaced its imagination.

The buildings had stopped pretending to be architecture. They had quietly become musical notes waiting for dawn to remember the melody.

In the middle of everything stood a tree so dark it looked as though midnight had planted itself and decided to grow roots.

The little orange windows flickered like jars where people kept fragments of unfinished dreams. Somewhere a kettle whistled. Somewhere a lonely sock found its partner. Somewhere a goldfish remembered the ocean without becoming sad about it.

The flower never turned toward the city. Flowers understand that wonder isn’t something you look at. It’s something that quietly blooms behind your eyes when you’ve finally run out of explanations.

Across the sky someone had written, Everything Will Awe.

Not as a promise.

Not as advice.

More like the label on a package that had been delivered before the universe knew your address.

She smiled so gently the night almost missed it.

The city continued resting where it always had, the flower remained gloriously unnecessary, and the stars, patient as old librarians, waited for someone to borrow a single impossible thought and forget to return it.

By morning nothing would have changed.

Except everyone who had looked long enough.