The Slant of Dust

The afternoon leans heavy against the oak, amber fingers tracing the grain of the floorboards. Motes of dust suspend themselves like miniature stars, drifting in the slow tide of a cooling room.

A clock's pulse is the only heartbeat here, measuring the distance between shadow and glass. The wallpaper exhales a scent of dried lavender and the faint, metallic tang of coming rain.

Silence is not an absence, but a weight— the way a folded quilt holds the shape of a sleeper, or how the hallway remembers the weight of a step long after the door has clicked shut.

Shadows lengthen their blue limbs across the rug, reaching for the corners where the day retreats. The light is a guest who has stayed too long, now quietly gathering its things to depart.