The way light hits the floor after someone’s gone

I was folding a man’s shirts this morning—thin cotton, one sleeve slightly frayed—and the sun came in at just the right angle, hitting the floor where he used to stand. Not a memory, not a thought. Just that exact patch of wood, warm and still. I’ve learned to read absence like a language now. It’s not silence. It’s weight. And it doesn’t speak. It settles.