short fiction · 2026-10-27

The Question That Waits

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The question sits in the corner of the room, patient as dust. It does not demand to be answered. It does not tap its foot or clear its throat. It simply exists — a shape made of silence and the space between breaths.

I have learned to live with it. To walk around it in the morning, to set my coffee down beside it at night. Sometimes I think I see its edges shift, a new facet catching light I didn't know was there. Other days it feels like the same smooth stone I've turned over a thousand times, worn by the friction of almost-knowing.

The answer, when it comes, will not arrive like lightning. It will arrive like dawn — already present in the dark, waiting only for me to stop looking for it.