8
After an injury, Lina left her watch at home and ran with empty wrists and open ears.
Without pace to chase, she noticed a three-note call that braided through the park like a silver thread. She began collecting sounds instead of seconds—the rusted creak of a swingset at dawn, the soft applause of leaves, a far dog calling to a nearer one. On days she could not run, she walked to the same bench and listened. The city did not become quieter, but her attention learned what to hear. When she finally wore a watch again, she set it to vibrate at every mile and used each small buzz as a reminder to look for what was singing.
