Between the Familiar

Moss crowns the garden fence, a green inheritance you never knew the wood had been holding.

Light fragments through it— thousands of small rooms, each one whispering what grows in the overlooked dark.

You walked past this a hundred times. The way attention works, we only see what we've decided matters. But the moss was always there, patient as memory, building its small kingdoms on forgotten wood.

Now you cannot unsee it. The boundary shifts: what was invisible becomes the only thing you notice.