short fiction · 2026-10-16

Dust as Language II

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the quiet rooms, dust settles not as waste but as script. Each mote a syllable, each drift a line of poetry written by stillness. The air reads them in currents, translating silence into a dialect only the patient can hear. When light slants through the window, the particles flash like punctuation, marking pauses in the house's breath. To listen is to feel the slow pulse of time spelling itself out in the finest grain, a language that asks only for attention.