The page hums under her
thumb, edges soft with
use.
Morning spills through the
glass, dust motes
drifting like slow
applause. She reads the
same sentence twice, then
lets it go.
A car passes outside, a
distant ripple. The chair
holds her the way silence
holds a room.
She turns the page —
not for the story, but
for the sound of it.
The day has not yet asked anything of her.