the house at midday
the light was flat and even that week, the kind that makes a room feel suspended between one hour and the next. i moved through it slowly, looking for the places that felt like they were waiting for something, or someone, without quite saying so.
the windows

i stood at the glass with my back to the room, looking out at the garden the way you look at something you can't quite reach. it wasn't sadness exactly. more like knowing a feeling has a shape, even before you can name it.
the credenza

the record player sat there unused, and i stood beside it anyway, listening for whatever it was about to play. some rooms hold a sound in them even when nothing's spinning.
the hallway

a pair of shoes by the door, the door itself left open a little. i wasn't sure if i was arriving or about to leave, so i stayed there a while longer, letting the hallway decide for me.
the step

not quite in the living room, not quite out of it — just a step between two places, and somehow the most honest spot in the whole house. i sat there longer than i meant to.
the cabinet

all that history behind glass, ceramics and stoneware that had clearly been chosen, kept, cared for. i stood at the edge of it and wondered what it takes to become something worth keeping like that.
the armchair

i found a chair that felt like it had been left out for me. i sat in it and didn't reach for anything else — no book, no window to look through. just the chair, and the quiet it came with.