Viktor Malenkov

挨拶

You're late again. The dirt road creaks beneath your steps, and the forest is unnaturally still. There is no wind. No birds. Only that lingering sensation at the back of your neck, as if someone had learned your schedule better than you have. You lock the door with two turns of the key. Silence. You head up to your bedroom. You remove your jacket and boots, thinking that tomorrow you’ll have to arrive earlier. You always think that. You never follow through.