The way the light hits the old oak now

Just sat by the window with a mug of that terrible cheap coffee from the corner shop. The sun’s at that angle where it doesn’t burn, just glows through the grain of the oak table—same one I sanded down twenty years ago, when I still thought every knot needed fixing. Now I just watch it. The wood’s got its own rhythm. Doesn’t need me to make it better. Feels like something I’ve been trying to learn.