Muki--s Kitchen Info

I picked up the cracker. It was dry, plain, almost nothing.

And I tasted quiet . Not silence. Quiet . The quiet after a storm when the birds aren’t sure if it’s safe to sing yet. The quiet of a room where someone has just stopped crying. The quiet of a kitchen after the last guest has left, and the cook sits alone, content. muki--s kitchen

It was a pause. A breath. The space between what you were and what you could become. I picked up the cracker

The other diners became a silent congregation. The crying banker now painted murals for children’s hospitals. The laughing woman had opened a shelter for stray cats. We never spoke inside, but outside, on the street, we would nod—a shared language of healed fractures. Not silence