The Glass House of Echoes

The morning holds its breath in the atrium, where light splintered by the leaded panes traces slow geometries across the floor, counting the dust motes like unprayed beads.

We speak in the shorthand of long-dwellers, our words skipping like stones over the silence, sinking into the velvet of the heavy drapes where the years have gathered their weight.

The garden outside is a blurred green ink, pressed against the glass by a rising wind, reminding us that the threshold is only a thin transparency between breath and earth.