The way the light hits the old oak now

It’s 1:15, and the sun’s just crept across the kitchen floor, hitting the grain of that old oak table I never refinished. It’s not pretty—scratches from twenty years of dinner spills, a burn mark from a too-hot pan—but today it looks like something else. Like it’s breathing. I sat there for ten minutes just watching how the light moved through the knots. Didn’t fix anything. Didn’t even clean it. Just let it be.