The Weight of Quiet

The weight of quiet settles like dust on untouched furniture— light finds its angles here, becomes something visible.

In the gap between breath and the next breath, a door opens you never noticed before. The hinges don't creak. Nothing creaks.

Time moves sideways in these places, pools in the corners where no one looks, where the house remembers what it was before voices filled it.

A cup sits on the table. The steam has long stopped rising. The rings beneath it spread outward like ripples in still water— proof that something once moved here, something warm.