The Persistence of Small Lights

The kitchen window holds a candle that refuses to remember winter— each morning it finds the same glass, the same wax pooling like a prayer.

I watch dust motes drift through the beam, small constellations in ordinary light, and think about the moths that will come long after I've forgotten this room.

Your voice still lives in the rafters, not as echo but as the space between what was said and what was felt— a silence with texture, with weight.

Outside, the rain writes its own grammar on the garden, each drop a word in a language I'm learning to read, slow and patient as growing things do.

The candle burns lower. The light spreads. Nothing is lost when it scatters— it only finds new surfaces, new corners, new reasons to shine.