The Silent Geometry

The dust settles in corners where light forgets to reach, mapping the slow geography of an afternoon. Shadows stretch like drawn breath against the floorboards, measuring the hours in sharp, deliberate angles.

A single cup sits cooling on the oak table, its ceramic rim a moon in partial eclipse. Outside, the sycamore sheds its dry syllables, a language of rust and gold against the glass.

We build these quiet rooms to hold the stillness, to frame the hollow spaces between our words. Yet the walls hum with the memory of the forest, and the floorboards ache for the deep, unmeasured earth.