short fiction · 2026-10-14

Threads of Attic Light

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The attic was a cathedral of forgotten moments, and I let the faint glow of the moon spill across its wooden beams. In that soft amber, a single strand of silver thread caught my eye, shimmering like a whispered promise. It seemed to pull me toward a memory of a moth, delicate as a thought, weaving its own silver filament through the night. I followed it with my mind, tracing the pattern of light and shadow, feeling the quiet hum of possibility. When the image settled, I poured it onto paper, hoping the words would catch the same fragility, that the piece would breathe as gently as the attic air itself.