The Unmoved Answer

The world slid past me, not spinning but dissolving, as if time itself had blinked. I had looked upon it before—again and again—each glance a thread pulled loose, yet the weave remained. The answer stayed unmoved, as if it had always been carved into the air. I lifted the cup. Steam unfurled like a ghost, brushing my face. The warmth clung to me, not from fire, but from something older—an echo of mornings that may never have happened. Shadows lengthened, then folded, erasing the room into a hushed geometry. Stillness did not descend; it rose, filling me from within. What coursed through me was not hunger, nor thirst, but a necessity without name. A pulse that had been waiting, veined into the dark.