Mover

Mover

In the hush of dawn, a lorry sighs, its engine low, a steady pulse, while cardboard boxes stack like dreams waiting for the next street’s promise.

He lifts the weight of wooden frames, the creak of floorboards under boots, each step a quiet confession— leaving behind the familiar scent of tea and the echo of laughter in the hallway.

Through rain‑slicked pavements he glides, the city’s breath fogging his spectacles, a silhouette against the red‑brick terraces, carrying more than just possessions: memories folded in tissue paper, photographs tucked between the plates, the soft hum of a life in transit.

When the last box finds its place in a new flat’s modest rooms, he pauses, hand on the doorknob, feeling the old walls whisper goodbye and the new ones whisper welcome— a mover, not just of things, but of horizons, of heartbeats, of the quiet courage it takes to begin again.