On Watch

Against the dark blue backdrop of the sky, the leaves of the banana tree sway. The wind, that invisible winged messenger, brings with it the whispers of a storm.

I sit in the dining room, wrapped in the stillness of the hour. The dining table is strewn with papers. I should be in bed. The rest of the house is asleep. Humans, dogs, and objects.

The storm crawls ever closer, stumbling over cities and towns, taking its time like a tourist. A stranger in my native soil.

It has not even rained where I am. For now, the metro is hushed, as if underwater. Muffled sounds, held breaths. It sleeps, it waits.

Because this silence, everyone knows—it is the kind of vigilant silence that awaits the coming of the storm. Almost challengingly.

The cold December air swirls outside, reminiscent of happier times. Atoms in the air are highly charged, zigzagging, anxious. These are the telltale signs.

I am on watch. And there will be no casualty on my watch.

(I hope.)

The Watcher
The Watcher

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