Fortress of Warm Light

Rain wrote soft lines across the street,

and the red bus waited like a held breath.

Concrete stacked above me in heavy shelves,

each slab cupping a small fire of light.

The steps glowed.

Water ran along the edges.

A single figure crossed the entry.

Somewhere a door clicked.

I had planned nothing.

Still, the city felt ready,

like a stage just before the first word.

The building looked like a fortress,

not medieval, but stubborn and kind

in its own square way.

I stood under the overhang and listened

to the hush that comes with weather.

My coat dripped.

My heart did its steady work.

Then the small shift happened.

Oh, I thought, this is the moment.

Not a grand sign, only warmth spilling from the stairwell.

The glass held a reflection

that did not argue with me.

In this situation, I could understand

how a life turns: a bus door opens,

a foot lifts, a path brightens by a few lamps.

The driver’s hands rested on the wheel.

The engine gave a patient murmur.

Mist softened the far blocks until they seemed possible.

I climbed aboard, coin in my palm,

and found a seat where the window

caught a slice of glowing concrete.

Rain stitched the view together.

The tires began to move.

It was simple.

Not fate, not thunder, only a kind city,

a safe roof of light,

and the will to lean forward.

The bus curved past the fortress.

The street widened.

The red paint shone against the grey.

I kept looking outward, and also in.

Both directions agreed that the first step had counted.

And that’s how it all began.