The Threshold of Light

Morning filters through glass— not quite arrival, not departure, just the soft threshold where breath finds its own rhythm again.

The light has opinions: it names the dust, counts the books, touches your face like a stranger who knows exactly where you live.

Some mornings you are new, some mornings you are old as stone. The walls don't care which— they're already forgetting yesterday.

What stays: the quality of silence, how it bends around the shape of you, how some suns break against ordinary panes of glass.