The Room Remembers Light

The afternoon angle shifts— a wedge of gold across the bookshelf that wasn't there yesterday, or was, but you weren't watching.

We don't notice the small thefts, how the sun steals back its hours, how dust settles like snow in the wake of our breathing.

The room holds what we forget: the exact shade of shadow at three o'clock in March, the particular silence after a door closes.

Time doesn't move forward. It accumulates—layers of light in the corners, sediment of hours we walked through without looking.