When the well runs dry,
the earth does not break open.
It only grows still,
as if holding its breath
beneath a sky that no longer listens.

The stones cool first,
their worn edges losing the warmth
of what once moved over them.
Dust gathers where water should be,
soft as surrender,
quiet as something forgotten.

Those who pass by pause
out of instinct,
leaning over the rim
as though depth might return
out of courtesy or memory.
Nothing stirs.

Even the wind grows cautious here,
skimming the surface
without touching the hollow beneath.
It knows better
than to disturb what emptiness guards.

When the well runs dry,
there is no announcement.
Only the faint echo
of a place that once carried weight,
now offering nothing
but the truth of its own stillness.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.