And the green shoot,
curled back on itself,
waiting under the grey
for a reason
that never arrives.

Then, just as quiet,
the click of the lock turning.
No storm, no shout,
just the abrupt stillness
after the light switch is flipped.

Leaving this echo.
This faint residue
of warmth withdrawn.
A question mark hanging
heavy in the air,
unanswered.