Fear for Your Keeping

You are standing in that narrow space between a shallow breath and a sigh that refuses to break. The walls aren't actually closing in, yet you feel the ceiling has dropped an inch since the rain began drumming against the glass—a frantic, rhythmic tapping, like nervous fingers searching for a way inside. You sit before that antique hourglass, watching the grains fall with a strange, stubborn persistence. They aren't just sand; they are flecks of your own composure slipping through your fingers to settle at the bottom, beyond retrieval. Every time you glance at your silent phone, the cold metal...