The Weight of Stillness

Hours collect like dust on windowsills— each one translucent, catching light at angles we never quite remember. You trace the pattern with your finger, watch it scatter into smaller hours.

The garden holds its breath between seasons, soil dark as unread letters, seeds patient in their dark certainty. We walk the same path twice and find it changed, though nothing moved.

Silence has texture here— the kind that settles in your chest, warm as bread cooling on a sill, heavy as the knowledge that we asked what we already knew.

Time doesn't flow; it accumulates, pressing down like those hours on the window ledge, sediment of all the moments we thought meaningless, now radiant with use.