Alone with the steel

Condensation beads collect,

a slow drip race on the dull metal wall.

My finger traces the path—tap-tap—

a restless rhythm in the quiet box.

Each drop a tiny drum,

echoing between floors,

silence broken only

by this small, private noise.

No one watches the slow game,

just me and cold steel,

me and my tapping finger,

in the hush that swallows sound,

while the elevator hums

and the world pauses, waiting.