Chromatic Residue
Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light illuminating the attic’s forgotten objects—a chipped teacup, a faded photograph, a worn leather glove. Reaching for these remnants didn't summon fixed scenes, but shifting layers of feeling; a phantom pressure against the palm alongside the distant scent of sea air described only in old letters. Each attempt to grasp *when* revealed not pristine events, but how intentions reshape themselves with each retelling, causing solid forms to dissolve at their edges. The body registered this fluidity as subtle shifts in balance—a resistance to holding any single story firm.