The Weight of Ghost-Light

The sun leans heavy against the glass, a slow-motion collapse of gold onto the dust-flecked floorboards, where the shadows of spider-plants stretch like long, desperate fingers.

Everything here is a slow translation of heat into silence, a quiet alchemy of the afternoon turning the familiar corners into altars of unremembered things.

I watch the light retreat, stepping backward through the doorway until only the scent of cedar remains, and the cool, blue press of evening settles into the empty chairs.