Threshold

The room holds its breath before the first note, light pooling in corners like spilled milk.

A single dust mote hangs suspended—not falling, not floating, just caught in the geometry of waiting.

Your hand trembles not from cold but from the weight of all the words choosing which one to become sound.

The silence grows teeth. Even shadows lean in closer, listening for the crack that will split the day open.

Then—a voice, thin as spider silk, and everything collapses into before and after.