The Rhythmic Crunch of Gravel Under Boot Soles in an Empty Allotment

Dear Delyara, I took a long walk past the community allotments on my way home tonight, the sky that deep, flat black that happens before the city lights fully reflect off the low clouds. The path was empty, and the only sound was the sharp, mechanical crunch-crunch-crunch of my own boots shifting the small gray stones. There is something deeply grounding about a sound that matches your physical movement exactly. It stops your mind from drifting backward or forward; it forces you to measure your life by the yard, focusing entirely on the three feet of ground immediately in front of your toes. I stood by the wire fence for a moment, smelling the winter cabbage and the rotting leaves, feeling entirely steady in the dark.