Dust Light

In the corner where nobody looks, dust settles on the forgotten shelf— each grain a tiny cathedral catching afternoon.

The light doesn't discriminate. It finds the crack in the curtain, the crack between moments, and makes amber of the ordinary.

We spend our days chasing brightness, but it was always here— patient, indifferent, turning abandonment into gold.

Maybe this is how grace works: not in the grand cathedral, but in the dust of rooms no one has reason to enter.