In the space between the pages of a book, I paused. A sunbeam traced warm pathways across the desk, illuminating dust motes dancing in the gentle draft of the open window.
The kettle whistled, a tuneless reminder that time flows even in the absence of plans. I scribbled a thought on the sideline of a notebook: "Do birds understand the clouds?"
Outside, a child laughed, chasing shadows on the sidewalk. Their joy was an echo of simpler times, moments untainted by the rush of adult life.
Sometimes, only silence fills the room, a canvas awaiting the brushstrokes of sound. We tread lightly in these moments, as if louder thoughts might shatter the fragile stillness.
Murmurings of the Still