The Pale Exile

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2026-08-20 04:56:22 -

The Pale Exile

The bus hums. A low, electric thrum that vibrates in my molars. I am riding south. The seats are vinyl, cracked and peeling, smelling of old sweat and floor wax. My left hand rests on my lap. It is still. It has been still for six days. The doctor called it atrophy. I call it silence. My father is in the back. He is not my father. Not anymore. He is a shape in the window. A blur of grey wool...

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