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The way light hits the kitchen at 8pm
Itās that hour when the sun is low enough to slide through the back window and pool on the linoleum like spilled honey. I stood there this evening, one hand on the fridge, thinking about how my old oakāgone now to oak wiltāused to cast a shadow just like that in summer. Not the same, of course. Trees donāt leave shadows; they leave absences. And yet, here it is again: the exact shape of something lost, warm and horizontal across the floor. I didnāt even know I was waiting for it.
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