The way light hits the violin case at 1:30

It’s that hour when the sun slants through the west window and catches the worn leather of my case just right—like it’s glowing from inside. I paused mid-rehearsal yesterday, not because of the passage, but because of how the light made the old scratches look like maps. Funny how something so quiet can stop you. I’ve been thinking about bow hair lately too—how it holds tension, how it wears down without warning. Like memory.