Yellow Pencil
The steamed-up window breathes beside me. I set the tip of my pencil on the notebook, and umbrellas drift past like dots of color.
The steamed-up window breathes beside me. I set the tip of my pencil on the notebook, and umbrellas drift past like dots of color.
On rainy days, when I see steam fog up the window glass, it feels like time has stopped for a moment. I used to sit in a place like that once, but now that place lives only in my memory.