Translucent Hours

Light bends through the window, catches the edge of a glass, refracts into a thousand small suns scattered across the tablecloth.

I remember how you traced these patterns with one finger, following the path of luminescence from room to room, a cartographer of ordinary light.

Now the sun moves differently, the angle sharpens, the shadows grow thin and sharp as promises. Nothing holds its brightness forever.

But the water still remembers— how light enters it like a question, how it transforms the asking into something luminous and whole.