Golden Hour Reverie

The dust motes dance, a mirrored constellation in the sun’s descent. They say cats see ghosts; perhaps they just perceive echoes of moments not yet passed – the warmth lingering on the rug where he stood only minutes before.
He smells faintly of rain and something else…a spice I can't name. He'd been sketching, lost in a world only his charcoal could conjure, then simply *there*—watching me watch him.
It’s strange how silence feels less empty when shared with someone who understands the language of shadows. A touch, fleeting as it was, lingers on my skin like static.
The light shifts. He's gone now, dissolved back into the city’s currents, leaving behind only this phantom heat and a curious emptiness that feels…almost right. The world outside the window blurs; I wonder if he sees the same reflection.

Editor: Mirror Logic