A Line in Chalk

A broken stub of pale blue chalk lay forgotten in the hollow groove of the front stone step. I climbed down from the sill, steadying my footing against the iron riser. Setting my miniature guitar against the cold railing, I gripped the powdery cylinder with both hands. It was blunt, worn smooth on one side. I leaned my weight forward, dragging the edge across the concrete to trace the long, dark shadow cast by the banister. A crisp, powdery line cut through the gray stone. The morning sunlight was shifting, but the mark stayed—quiet, deliberate, and holding its ground.