The Amber Sieve

The late sun filters through the slats, a slow descent of dust and gold, where every mote is a suspended breath caught in the geometry of the afternoon.

The shadows stretch their ink across the floor, tasting the cool grain of the wood, measuring the distance between what was and the gathering weight of the evening.

Silence is not a void here, but a texture, the soft friction of light against the glass, as the world outside dissolves into grey, leaving only the rhythm of the dying glow.