Morning Light at the Margin

The hallway holds its breath between sleep and the ringing bell, dust suspended in gold—a kingdom where nothing yet decides to be what it must become.

I stand where shadow still remembers night, where sunlight hasn't finished its argument with the corners. A door opens somewhere, or perhaps closes. The house settles, learning its new shape.

In this amber pause, the world is both possibility and arrival, the moment before the moment knows itself, when anything could still turn back toward what it was.

But I don't turn. I walk forward into the ordinary day, carrying this small bright knowing: that every threshold is a birth, and I am always arriving.