Inverness

Late Sunday.

The light going down behind the roofs.

Rain along the Ness, steady, without emphasis,

touching stone, then moving on.

I had no purpose

except to be out of the room

and under something that did not belong to me.

The river did not notice.

It kept its line between the banks

as if that were enough.

A small sign: Sung Vespers.

I went in.

Dark, at first.

Then the smell—wood, wax, something held over years.

Candles set low, not arranged for display,

only to be there.

A bench, worn smooth.

I sat.

No one asked anything.

No one needed to.

Silence gathered—not empty,

but settled, like ground before cold.

Then the voices.

Boys, mostly.

Not finished voices.

Edges still there.

They sang anyway.

The sound moved upward,

met the beams,

stayed.

It did not insist.

It did not explain.

Only continued.

Smoke lifted slowly.

Breath and pitch

finding the same space.

For a moment—

no longer than that—

it seemed possible

that nothing was missing.

Or that if it was,

it did not matter here.

I did not think much.

The body understood first—

something loosening,

something not required.

I sat with it.

When it ended, it ended.

No conclusion.

No instruction.

Outside, the river again.

The same movement.

The same refusal.

But something remained—

not a belief,

not even a memory exactly,

just a trace of warmth

that did not depend on me.

I walked back

through the rain

without deciding what it meant.