short fiction · 2026-10-14

Attic Light

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The attic was a cathedral of dust and forgotten shadows, where shafts of late‑day light slipped through cracked panes like hesitant fingers. A single moth hovered near an old wooden beam, its wings catching the amber glow as if it were a whispered secret; when I watched, the silver thread of its flight seemed to catch that light, turning the insect into a living filament against the darkness. In that instant, time folded — stillness became a pulse, and the ordinary room transformed into a quiet universe where even the smallest creature could illuminate an entire space.