The way the light hits the old oak now

It’s just past six, and the sun’s low on the west side of the house, catching the grain in the kitchen table I’ve been sanding for weeks. It’s not perfect — still a few nicks from when I dropped a chisel last month — but the light makes it look like it’s breathing. I sat there for ten minutes without moving, watching how the shadow shifts across the wood like it’s telling a story. Not much else matters right now. Coffee’s cold, but that’s fine.