The Green Thread and the Slow Tram

The tram tracks curve through the city, a slow, steady rasp against the gravel. I stand in the hallway, the air smelling of damp concrete and dust. A single thread emerges from the closed door at my elbow, pulled tight, shining pale yellow against the maroon wallpaper. The weight in my hand settles, a bone-deep pressure, belonging to someone with knuckles thick and a deep stain beneath the nail beds. I watch the other person’s hand rest there, cool against mine, a sudden, heavy presence. There is a small space in my chest where nothing belongs, a lightness that refuses definition. We pass the window glass, and the city names flicker past, unfamiliar signs over buildings I remember seeing. The thread pulls tauter, vibrating a low, continuous hum. The weight remains.