The Weight of Dust

Light filters through the heavy velvet drape, a single pillar illuminating motes that dance in suspended animation, holding the breathless quiet of the room.

We leave soft traces on the wooden floor, ghosts in the shape of our passing steps, scratches etched into the varnished grain, a quiet script of having been here.

The objects remain long after the voices fade, a ceramic cup stained pale brown at the rim, the dog-eared pages of a forgotten spine, waiting to be found or turned to ash.

Even the silence settles like a sheer fabric, draping over the edges of the afternoon, until the sun pulls back its golden thread.