The car idled quietly, engine humming low. Outside, the driveway was blocked — another car, parked firmly in the sun-tinged morning. There was no hurry, no honking, no pressing schedule. Just the soft, patient pause of waiting.
Inside, the air was warm against the skin, a gentle cocoon that separated you from the coolness outside. You could feel it pressing lightly on your shoulders, a reminder of small comfort in a world that was otherwise still.
The morning smell was everywhere. Earth rising from the ground, damp and mineral, carrying yesterday’s rest into the waking day. Sky descending from above, crisp and airy, brushing down through the open window and mingling with the warmth of the cabin. It was a perfume of possibility, quiet and unobtrusive, yet utterly present.
Time itself seemed to slow. Minutes didn’t stretch, they deepened. Waiting was not boring — it was a container, a space carved out of the world where you could simply exist. You leaned back, letting the hum of the engine synchronize with your heartbeat, letting the smells fold around you like soft light.
The owner of the other car starts the engine, and moved the car. He signals an apologetic gesture. The pause had ended. But for a long moment, you lingered in that stillness, aware of the balance between warmth and cool, earth and sky, motion and stillness. The driveway cleared, but the memory of waiting — the comfort of simply being — lingered far longer than the moment itself.