Threshold of Dust

Glass jars line the window ledge, each holding the dim geography of lost years. A button from a coat no one wears anymore. Two copper pennies the color of old music.

Dust settles like forgetting— soft and thorough, erasing edges until the real object blurs into its shadow. I hold a thimble worn thin by hands that knew their purpose, and for a moment the whole house remembers how to be inhabited.

The light comes sideways, unkind, showing what accumulates when no one's watching— spider silk strung between intention and neglect, the patient work of time turning everything beautiful simply by making it old.