Predators love statues. They gave it a river instead.
The effect was a strange kind of peace. Movement became a soft ripple that never resolved. Ankles wrote tiny essays about where weight belongs. Hips made a language of small compromises. Hands adjusted straps and folds by instinct that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with living another hour.
Mikhailis caught the beat like a coin tossed in a bar—late enough to prove he was watching, early enough to prove he wasn't just copying. He wanted to whisper something foolish—We are a school of fish with good taste—and did not. He watched the shadows instead. If it wants pauses, don't give it pauses. Give it grammar with no period.
