The Weight of Dust

The morning light slants across the floorboards, revealing the suspended motes of ancient storms, a slow choreography of the forgotten. They settle on the spines of unread books, each particle a testament to hours slipped by.

In the corner, an empty chair holds its shape, remembering the curve of a spine, the heavy exhalation of a winter evening. The wool is worn thin where hands once rested, now only the cold air traces those threads.

Silence here has its own particular gravity, pulling the shadows longer against the peeling paint. It is not an absence, but a dense accumulation, the quiet compounding of a thousand empty rooms, waiting for a footstep that never arrives.