What the Shadows Know

The afternoon shadow stretches long across the floorboards, a dark finger pointing toward something we're all trying to remember. It moves without asking permission, indifferent to the things we grip.

By evening it curls back, retreats into the corner where it was born— less accusation now, more like forgetting. The light that cast it has already moved on.

We track shadows the way sailors track stars, believing in their permanence, their steady logic. But they are water, always becoming something else, always erasing themselves.

Even now, as you read this, yours has shifted beneath your feet.