Dust in the Morning Light

The beam cuts through the window, sudden and gold, and suddenly the room is full of dancers— particles suspended in their own weightless waltz, moving to music only light can hear.

They drift like thoughts between the conscious and the forgotten, each speck a small prayer nobody meant to make. The furniture holds still, watching these brief lives complete their arcs, these fragments of the world made visible.

When I move, the light moves with me, and what was there dissolves into ordinary air. The dancers vanish, the music stops. But I know they're still there, still moving, waiting for the sun to tell their story again.