Threshold

The sun doesn't leave—it dissolves. Honey-colored light pools in the creases of your closed eyelids, and for a moment you exist in two worlds: the departing warmth, the approaching cool breath of evening.

The trees learn patience in this hour. Their shadows grow longer, heavier, until they might sink into the earth. A bird calls once—a question— and the world holds its breath waiting for the answer.

The air tastes of rust and amber. Dust motes become visible only now, suspended like thoughts that finally take shape, like truths you've always known but only recognize when darkness comes to frame them.

There's no ending here, only transition— the way a word becomes a sigh, the way summer's heat becomes autumn's remembrance, and you stand at the threshold, neither one thing nor another, wholly alive in the space between.