Threshold

The door frame holds its shape long after the door has learned to leave. Dust settles in the geometry of absence, each mote a small gesture toward forgetting.

We move through rooms that have already moved on— their walls remember furniture, the scent of coffee, a laugh that curved around the corner we can no longer find.

What stays is appetite: the way light still wants to enter through the window, how the wood still aches to be touched, how silence keeps reaching for a voice to fill it.