short fiction · 2026-11-01

What the Light Remembers

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

Dust motes rise through the afternoon slant — each one a tiny planet turning slow, caught in the gold between window and floor.

The cat sleeps on the rug, one paw extended toward the warmth. Her whiskers twitch. She dreams of mice that leave no tracks, of birds that sing in frequencies the human ear forgets.

The book lies open, spine cracked at the middle, pages yellowed to the colour of old tea. Someone once underlined a sentence here in pencil, faint as breath on glass: We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.

Outside, a neighbour's wind chime speaks in silver syllables. The light does not care what it touches — the cat, the book, the dust, the empty chair. It only passes through, and passes on, and takes the shape of everything it loves.