The Smallest Things

Light pools in the corner where the door frame meets the wall— gold dust suspended in stillness, asking nothing of us but to notice.

We live inside forgetting, our eyes trained on the larger hungers, the monuments we build to prove we were here.

But today a single ray catches the edge of a water glass, scatters prismatic alphabet across the table where no one sits, and I remember: the smallest things hold the whole story.

Even shadows are light refusing to arrive, even silence is music humming at frequencies our ears forgot to hear.