the way the sun bleached the color out of the street signs for a second, making everything feel like a faded photograph. my throat tightened then, a familiar clench, not quite pain but the memory of it, a phantom ache where a voice used to reside. it’s strange, this echo, how easily a moment can pull you back to a feeling you thought you’d outgrown, a specific kind of melancholy that tastes like dry wine.