short fiction · 2026-10-16

Dust Speaks in Slow Time

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the quiet rooms where sunlight slants, dust settles not as decay but as script. Each grain a syllable, each drift a line, written by the slow hand of passing hours. They speak of footsteps that once pressed the floor, of breaths that stirred the air now still, of skins shed and fibers frayed, of time's quiet insistence on being heard. Listen close: the silence is not empty, but full of letters waiting to be read. The house remembers in particles, and we, distracted, mistake its language for neglect.