Atlas of Moths

In the attic, a single bulb keeps a thin summer alive, its halo a small republic of dust.

Moths arrive like pages torn from an old map, fleeing the dark for a warmer continent, their wings scribbled with quiet weather.

I hold still, a lighthouse without a sea, watching them learn and unlearn the light, each orbit a brief, humming sentence.

Downstairs, the house settles into its bones; stairs creak like a throat clearing before a name that never comes.