The way light hits the floor after someone’s gone

I was folding a wool sweater this morning—gray, slightly worn—and noticed how the afternoon sun fell across the floorboards just so, like it was waiting for a shape to fill it. Not empty, exactly. More like holding its breath. I’ve started seeing these moments everywhere: the chair left slightly askew, the teacup still warm on the counter. It’s not grief. It’s just… attention. Like the house remembers what it meant to be full.