I stood on the staircase
that faces Shumaila Garden, a place where mornings arrive slowly
and peacocks gather like they own the silence.

The bricks were cold under my feet,
still damp from the night.
I stopped on the third step from the top,
that spot, worn smooth by years
of uncertain waiting.

Behind me, the academic block buzzed faintly,
but here, everything held still.
The air smelled of cut grass,
wet concrete,
and something burning in the distance,
plastic, maybe,
or paper left too close to flame.

The neem tree beside the railing trembled
with unseen birds,
their chirping sharp, nervous,
like questions that didn’t want answers.
A few peacocks stood a level below,
motionless,
their feathers dull in the low light.
They watched the garden
like they remembered something I didn’t.

Above, the sky was a washed-out grey,
the kind that forgets how to be morning.
The sun didn’t rise,
it spilled slowly through bare branches,
light thinning like breath on glass.

Even the trimmed hedge smelled raw
a bitter green that clung to the air.
A fire extinguisher near the railing
caught my eye.
Too bright, too ready.
It looked like the only thing expecting anything.

I didn’t sit.
I didn’t move.
I just stood there,
with cold brick underfoot,
light leaking from the sky,
and a silence thick enough
to carry.