Concrete

A sound in the stairwell.

I don't know what made it—

a voice, a door, footsteps.

The fluorescent light too bright.

The concrete walls sent it back.

The sound doubled. Came back.

I was alone in the space

and the sound was coming back at me

from every direction. The walls

gave it back. Multiplied it.

That's what happens—

not the sound itself

but the sound returning,

the realization that you're alone

with the evidence of your own

presence.

The stairwell

held the sound and held me too.

I stood there. The sound

bounced off the concrete,

came back, faded, came back again.

That's the loneliness of it—

not the silence but the returning,

the sound that proves you're there

and alone with that proof.