I stepped out for a walk around five. The river was high from last week’s rain. Cyclists skimmed past, wheels hissing on wet pavement. I passed the old bookshop and almost went in, but instead kept moving, letting the evening air clear my mind. I stopped on the bridge, leaned on the railing, and let the city’s noise become a soft, distant music.
There was nothing special about today, not at first. No revelations, no sudden change in direction. Just a sequence of hours, filled and emptied, a day as ordinary as bread and basil and the sound of trams at dusk.
If you asked, was today typical? I’d say yes. But also: no. Today was typical the way a river is typical—always the same, always changing.
life 