Daughter Unbound

The grocery store is open later than the sky. By the time she steps inside, the evening has already settled over the city, pressing its reflection against the glass doors. Outside, the street is darkening. Inside, everything remains bright. Not harsh. Just awake. Rows of produce sit beneath overhead lights that do not seem concerned with the hour. Apples, oranges, bundles of herbs misted periodically by a system hidden somewhere above. The water arrives without announcement. A brief hiss. A fine cloud. Then nothing. The vegetables glisten for a moment before returning to how they were. She pauses near the entrance and watches it happen. Provision that does not require attention. Most people continue walking. They are not wrong to. The mist was not for them. “Your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.” — Matthew 6:8 She takes a basket from the stack near the door. The plastic catches briefly against the one beneath it before releasing with a small sound. Nothing...

The platform is fuller than she expected. Not crowded, exactly. Just occupied. Every bench holds someone, every column has become a temporary place to lean, every stretch of open floor seems already spoken for by someone standing in it. And yet there is room. There always is. She finds a place near the edge of the platform, far enough back to avoid the rush when the train arrives, close enough to feel the wind when it does. The tracks below disappear into darkness. Not mystery. Just distance. A train has recently left. She can tell by the way people are still settling back into themselves—the small adjustments after movement. A bag repositioned. A coat sleeve tugged into place. Eyes lifting from where the train had been to where it no longer is. The absence remains for a moment. Then it doesn't. New York is practiced at continuing. She slips her hands into her coat pockets and waits. Or rather, she stands. The difference feels important somehow. Waiting implies focus. Standing allo...