The Dust Settles

The dust settles on the forgotten things, a quiet entropy of memory and moth-eaten cloth, where sunlight slants through a cracked pane, illuminating nothing but the slow decay of what once meant everything.

A single brass button, tarnished and dull, rests beside a stack of brittle letters, the ink fading into the parchment like a whispered secret lost in a crowded room.

Time moves differently up here, not in ticks and tocks, but in the settling of particles, the slow surrender of color, and the silent accumulation of years.