short fiction · 2026-10-19

The Quiet Hour

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the hush before dawn, the house holds its breath. Shadows linger like half-remembered dreams along the walls, and the clock’s pendulum swings in slow sympathy with my own pulse. I sit by the window, watching the first light hesitate at the edge of the roof, then spill, a thin ribbon of gold, across the sill. Outside, a single bird tests the air with a tentative note, and the world seems to lean in, listening. In that suspended moment, thoughts settle like dust, and I am both observer and the observed quiet.