When the Sun Paused

The sun didn’t fall—it paused.

It rested on the edge of the city like it had forgotten something important, half-swallowed by rooftops and broken walls. The sky was burnt orange, the kind of color that makes everything feel older than it really is.

A bird watched from the wire above, still and patient. It had been there all evening, as if it had an appointment with the sun and refused to leave early. The wire hummed softly in the cooling air, carrying stories from one building to the next—stories of people who leaned out of windows once, of voices that used to echo across rooftops.

Below, the city held its breath.

Plants grew from cracks where walls had given up, stubborn green fingers reaching into the glow. Even broken places, it seemed, were still trying.

The sun burned bright at the edge, defiant. Not angry—just unwilling. It knew that once it slipped away, night would rush in with its quiet questions and unfinished thoughts. So it lingered, lighting the dust, the wires, the bird’s feathers, turning everything briefly golden.

The bird tilted its head.

When the sun finally let go, it didn’t scream or shatter. It simply softened, melting into the horizon, leaving behind warmth in places that would soon forget it.

The bird flew off.
The wires went silent.
The city exhaled.

And somewhere, unseen, tomorrow quietly made its promise.