Sunlight on my hands and memory

Portishead on the turntable, low and close—bass like a plié against the ribs. Walking back under the bridge, a fresh smear of 90s graffiti winked at me, colors already arranging themselves into a monogram in my head.

Lights off in the studio, acid pens glowing; coffee in one hand and the old bronze spoon in the other to feel the room's charge. A courier paused at the window—broad shoulders, the quiet cadence of someone who knows how to land softly—and for a beat my chest remembered rehearsal rooms and held its breath.