The way light hits the kitchen at 5:17

It’s not even golden hour, just late afternoon, but the sun slants through the window like it’s been rehearsing all day. I watched a dust mote spiral in that beam—three seconds of perfect motion before it vanished into shadow. I miss my old harness; the leather still smells faintly of sap and sweat. Today, I didn’t climb anything. Just stood here, remembering how a tree feels when you’re inside its bark, breathing with it. And then I laughed because I realized I’ve been talking to myself for ten minutes. Still, the light was worth it.